Love Those of Great Ambition Continued!
by otp-is-relative
Summary: As Paul tutors Davy in Latin, their animosity turns to friendship and- more? Meanwhile, Dora struggles with her love/hate for James Yates, who will have Davy at any cost. Continued from Acidity's fic "Love Those of Great Ambition"- read hers first!
1. Ch 9

"Davy," said Paul, impulsively hugging the younger boy. "You're amazing."

Davy was always unruly, and he should have looked ridiculous in his ruffly apron- yet he did not. Somehow, the white lace ruffles against his tanned skin made him look more manly in contrast. Paul looked into Davy's eyes for a moment, enjoying the nut-brown and hazel and merry glints of gold. A tiny bit of frosting had landed in Davy's hair when he was mixing it vigorously and willing the bottom of the bowl not to burn. Paul was about to reach up and remove the white speck, when Dave suddenly drew away.

"Glad it worked out," said Davy, too quickly, too loudly. "I have to go."

Davy removed Paul's arm from around his shoulders. The glints of gold were gone, and so was the dimple.

"What's the matter?" said Paul. "Is something wrong?"

"I have to go, uh, help Marilla."

"Help her? Do what? I'm bored- can I come with you?"

"I don't think so," said Davy, who was backing away. "I have to- uh- make a cake. I mean. Bake my bed." He turned on his heel and ran, covering his face.

Paul watched his retreating form, scratching his head.

"What happened to Davy?" asked Emmaline at Paul's elbow. Paul hadn't even noticed her standing there.

"I have no idea," said Paul.

"Well, I hope he comes back soon. I like him," said Emmaline shyly, twirling one of her plaits.

Paul looked at her strangely. Was the little girl blushing?

"He'll be back," said Paul shortly. "Emmaline, can you help me clean up the flour? Davy made a bit of a mess."

As Emmaline and Paul tidied the kitchen, Paul kept absentmindedly knocking things over. He kept replaying the last few moments with Davy, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong to drive Davy away. Davy had seemed- scared, almost.

"It's just the pressure of Queens exams," Paul told himself, stacking the still-wet dishes in the cupboard. Emmaline stared, afraid to tell him- she didn't want Paul to get upset at her, but he was just acting so peculiar. "He's been studying for far too long, and his brains are addled. Or it's the sugar," he added, putting the sugar bowl where the flour jar should be. "Davy did sample too much cake batter." He glanced at the cake. Grandmother Irving's recipe was famous for a good reason, but Paul doubted the original cake had such elegant swirls of frosting. "

"Paul? That's where the flour goes," said Emmaline hesitantly. Paul looked.

"Eh?" he said vaguely. "I didn't know I did that."

"I can finish cleaning up, if you want to go do Latin," she said.

"Latin," said Paul. "Yes. I have- important things- Latin it is- thank you Emmaline." Paul blundered off to his room. Emmaline wrinkled her nose at him and kept tidying.

Davy paced up and down Lover's Lane. He was not expected back home for at least another hour, which gave him plenty of time to think. Ordinarily a restless Davy with time on his hands would have worked on his seedpod boat, but he hadn't build with seedpods in months because of tutoring and Latin. Latin wasn't so bad with Paul. Mr. Browndale was quite impressed with Davy's progress, and a few days before he'd pulled Davy aside to tell him that if he kept this up, he would not only pass Latin, but he had a chance of getting very high marks.

Pity, really, that he had to give all of that up.

Davy absolutely could not go back to the Irving mansion. He couldn't face Paul when he knew what he knew now. That was all right. He could teach himself Latin. All Paul did was liven up the lessons with stories. Davy was a master at inventing stories. He'd visited the library and read some Roman mythology last weekend, just because Paul had told him the fascinating tale of Proserpina in the course of a conjugation drill. Paul had enlivened the story in a few words, making real Ceres's grief, Pluto's fiery love and moral dilemma, and Prosperina's distaste for Pluto, fascination with the underworld, and secret rebellion against Demeter. Davy had discovered that the original myth's characters were quite different from Paul's tale. He liked Paul's tale better. Paul's Prosperina was more like a real person- a teenage girl who was tired of being under her mother's thumb and wanted to experience some dark and dangerous rebellion. Encyclopedias of mythology were all very well, but they couldn't tell the story in a low calm voice accompanied by hectically sparkling blue eyes outside in the summer sun... No. No. Davy made up his mind. He would teach himself three chapters of Latin from the old tome, and then to reward himself, he would ask Miranda to accompany him to spy on Old Mr. Harrison.

Years ago, everyone had thought Old Mr. Harrison was a crotchety old bachelor- and then his wife had arrived in town. They had passed several happy years, but then Mrs. Harrison had become ill with something mysterious (or, at least, mysterious to Mrs. Lynde, who despite her predilection for gossip refused to divulge details about Mrs. Harrison's symptoms) and passed away. Now Old Mr. Harrison was decidedly eccentric. He would have long conversations with inanimate objects, sometimes calling them "Ginger." Once Davy had seen him through the window doing a spirited, ungainly dance with his cane and humming a polka tune. When Old Mr. Harrison had spied Davy staring, he's muttered indignantly to his cane, spit, and continued dancing. Needless to say, Davy was always looking for an excuse to spy on him, but Dora would never go ("The poor man has gone insane. How can you laugh at him?"). Miranda has a sense of humor though. And so did-

James.

James was coming up Lover's Lane the opposite way.

"Davy!" he called. "Long time no see!"

"'Lo, James," said Davy as James jogged faster toward him. "How're you?"

"Quite well, and you? I haven't seen you in too long! Too good to hang around raggedy old James, eh?"

"No!" said Davy instantly. "No, it's not like that! I've just been b-"

"Busy," said James. "I know. You told me before. It's all right."

But it did not look all right. James eyes looked reproachful.

"Really," said Davy. "I've been spending all my time studying. Queens exams are coming up, and if I don't pass I don't know what I'll do."

"You don't want to be a teacher," said James. "I know that. You're just going through with it because it's expected of you."

Davy sighed. "James-"

"I'm just telling it like it is," said James. "Look at you. You spend all your time studying, poring over a subject you hate. You never come over. Miranda says you barely talk to her. You've become quiet- still. Like stagnant water. Where's your sense of adventure, Davy? What happened to the warm-blooded ruffian I used to know?"

Davy was a little rattled from the deluge. He did not reply for several minutes- just walked steadily beside James, staring at their feet. James was barefoot- his feet were crooked, callused. Dirty, yet not repulsive. They looked somehow seasoned. Davy's shod feet looked comparatively prim and childish.

"Things change, James," said Davy at last.

James did not reply. When the silence was starting to feel heavy and awkward, Davy blurted: "So what have you been up to?"  
"Oh, just- things," said James. "I've been itching for a new adventure. I'm going to India next."

"India!" Davy whirled to James. "Wow! Hey, James? When you come back, can you bring me one of those statues of the dancing man with all the arms?"

James smiled. "I think I can do better than that."

"What do you mean?"

James whistled at the sky.

"What?" Davy tugged James' sleeve.

"It's a surprise," said James.

"No fair, James," Davy whined. "What are you talking about? I want to know."

"There's the Davy I know," said James, smirking.

Davy felt as though he'd been cheated somehow.

"Where are we going?" he asked sourly.

"Somewhere," said James.

Davy looked around. He'd been blindly following James. They were now surrounded by trees and green-filtered showers of sunlight. He loved the woods of P.E. Island, but he had never been here before.

"There's a stream down this hill," said James. "Follow me."

"I'm expected home soon," he said.

"Just tell them you were with me," said James. "I'm sure they'll be happy you were having fun for once."

"Mrs. Lynde won't," said Davy.

"Since when do you care what the old broad thinks?"

"The old- what?"

"Nothing."  
"No- what was that word? I didn't hear you."

"It was nothing."

Davy sighed.

They approached the stream. It was more of a brook, full of stones that were perfect for hopping on. "Let's go!" said Davy, eyes shining as he turned to James. "Race you across?"

"Not right now," said James.

Davy slumped. Then he looked around again and got another idea. "The twigs from these trees are perfect for bending," he said. "Want to build Robinson Crusoe's fort?"

"Not now."

"All right. Let's go swimming!"

"No."

"What's the point of bringing me here if we're not going to have any fun? I have things to do." James' face darkened at those last words.

"Things to do," said James. "Well, Mr. Davy Keith. In the interest of not wasting more of your precious time, I have something to say to you. Just hear me out and you can go."

Davy was getting more and more confused. He sat down on a rock and waited.

And waited.

James was playing with a stick, absently whittling, but not making anything. Davy felt itchy, like he did when Mr. Browndale kept him after school for one of those serious talks.

"How would you like to go to India with me?" he asked at last.

Davy laughed. "Good one, James."

"I wasn't joking."

James was staring right at Davy, his gaze intense, concentrated. Davy fidgeted.

"James- of course I'd love to go to India. But you know I can't. It's impractical."

"What's impractical about it?"

"Well- you know- I don't have the money or anything, obviously," said Davy.

"Don't worry about that. We can live and travel cheaply, and I have quite a bit saved up," said James.

Davy wished James would blink. "Marilla would never let me go."

"You're sixteen years old, Davy. She has no right to stop you."

Of course Marilla had the right to stop him. The woman had taken him in as an orphan and brought him up. As much as Davy resented her rules sometimes, he knew that he could never go off with James on such an adventure without her blessing. He would be tortured with guilt. He'd always felt a little bit guilty even when he'd skived off Sunday school as a child.

"That's right," said Davy slowly. "I'm sixteen. I'm not a child anymore." James brightened, but then Davy continued. "I can't do it," he said. "I have to think about my future. You're right- I don't know if I want to be a teacher. But I need to. I need to pass the Queens exams and get my certification. Even if I hate teaching, I need to save up money for myself. Maybe I can use it to go to college. Or maybe I'll decide to buy the Cuthbert farm. But I can't take a trip with you now. It wouldn't be right."

"Who are you trying to convince?"

James had sat next to Davy on the warm, smooth rock. His face was turned away.

"College? The Cuthbert farm? Those paths don't suit you, Davy. You're not a plain, plodding Avonlea boy. You're special. And now you're becoming a man. You're too grown up to take a path just because some old people told you it was respectable."

Davy slapped at a gnat that had landed on his arm. The gnat came back. He waved it away.

"We could seek our fortunes together," said James. His voice was suddenly golden and rich with promise. "You and me, in India. A vast land, glittering with untold mystery. We can study Hinduism and Buddhism together. We can learn the secrets of spiritual enlightenment."

"And what will we eat?"

"Delicious savory food, flavored with mysterious Oriental spices," said James reverently.

"Not what I meant," said Davy.

"I told you, I have money," said James. "You always ask too many questions, Davy. But this time I have all the answers."

Davy stared at the glimmering stream. Last year he would have jumped on this opportunity- or at least, he would have begged and pleaded Marilla for months to let him go. Now he had no desire to at all. He wanted to see India, of course- he had burned to see the world since he was very small- but on James' money? Would James feel entitled to boss him around? And what if something went wrong- if he and James had a fight, or if James decided he wanted to stay in India forever? Would Davy be able to come back?

But going with James meant being half a world away from Paul Irving- and the farther he was from Paul, the better.

No. Paul was- too complicated to think about, and Davy's straightforward mind was dealing with too much confusion at once. In the midst of all of his confusion, he could only be certain of one thing. He did not want to go with James.

"No, James," said Davy. "Thank you for the offer, but the answer is no."

"Why?"

James' gaze intensified even more- as if he thought he could somehow change Davy's mind by staring at him.

"I'm having trouble putting it into words," Davy admitted. "But I can't go with you. And now I need to go home. Goodbye."

Before James could stop him, Davy sprinted up the hill. At the top, he realized he did not know where he was. But something stopped him from going back down to ask James. He just picked a direction and kept walking. He passed Old Mr. Harrison's. He did not look in the window- he just calculated where he was and continued on his way home. When he got there, he did not ask for shortcake or bread and jam. He did not tease Dora or even speak to her- Miranda was there too, and Miranda was the last person he needed to see right then.

Well- the second to last.

No, wait- the third.

Davy sprinted up to his room and threw himself facedown on the bed, letting his worn-out nubbly pillow embrace his face and the tears that leaked out. He did not think to be ashamed or embarrassed. He did not try to analyze the reasons for the tears. He just cried quietly until he fell asleep.

"Davy Keith!"

Davy jerked awake. His eyes were assaulted with a lot of red. Auburn.

"It's ten minutes past dinnertime!" said Anne indignantly. Then she saw the expression on his face. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," said Davy shortly, getting up and brushing the hair out of his eyes (and surreptitiously brushing away the accumulated tears).

"No you're not," said Anne immediately. She sat down on his bed and put her arm around him. "Come. Tell Anne what's wrong, and I'll make it all better."

"My problems aren't simple," said Davy.

Davy caught a glimpse of Anne's smirk before she straightened her face. "It's a girl, isn't it?" she asked. "Is it Minnie May?"

"Minnie May?" In the past few weeks Davy had practically forgotten the girl existed.

"Or is it the Donnell girl with the absurdly long name?"

"No, Anne. It's not a girl. Please stop assuming you know everything about my life. I'm not eight years old anymore."

Anne's merry face sobered down, and her grey eyes got bigger. "I'm sorry," she said. She took her arm off his shoulders. "I still look at you and think of my little Davy-boy, but I've been away for so long, and you've grown up since I've gone."

As if Davy needed any reminding of that.

"If you tell me what's the matter, I can try to help you," she continued.

"It's James, Anne," he said at last. "James invited me to go to India with him."

Anne had learned a bit about James since she'd been home, from things Miranda and Dora said. She'd still never met the fellow. He sounded like trouble.

"India?" she asked. "For how long?"

"I don't know," said Davy. "James doesn't keep schedules. He follows his inner compass. It could be a week- it could be years."

Anne scrunched her forehead. "How does he have the means to live like that?"

"I mean, he works wherever he goes," said Davy. "He saves up money somehow. He told me not to worry about money- that we both could live off his savings and find our fortune."

"I've always wanted to go to India," said Anne dreamily. "To see the Taj Mahal."

"Me too," said Davy. "But this is different. I can't go with James. I have responsibilities here- and I need to take care of my future."

"You're right about that, Davy-boy," said Anne. "Plenty of time for world travel when you've grown up to be rich and famous."

"Or just when I've grown up," said Davy. "James didn't do the normal thing, Anne. He didn't sit for Queens exams and teach. He didn't work on a farm. He didn't go to college either. And he was implying that going through with all that meant a horrible, dull life."

Anne's hunch had been right. James was trouble.

"He kept trying to make me go," said Davy. "He was making me feel guilty for studying with P- at the Irvings' house all the time. And he wouldn't take no for an answer. He was making me so confused. I mean- yes we're friends, but why would he want me along so bad anyway? Why isn't he trying to bring Miranda?"

This was beyond the scope of Anne's legendary problem-solving skills. She was at a complete loss- so she did what she knew best.

"There, there, Davy," she said, pulling him into a one-armed hug. "You made the right decision. It will be all right. As long as you keep studying as well as you've been, and pass your exams, it will be all right. Mr. Browndale told me you've been getting along very well in Latin."

Latin. Paul. Davy's head sank into his hands again.

"I'm going down to eat," said Anne. "I'll tell Marilla you're not feeling well, and I'll do my best to satisfy Mrs. Lynde's questions and pretend to take her advice."

Davy did not smile or raise his head. Anne walked out and softly closed the door.


	2. Ch 10

CHAPTER 10

Paul was worried. It had been two weeks, and he had not heard from Davy at all. Anne had told him that Davy was ill- but Davy couldn't afford to be ill, with the exam coming up so soon. It made Paul sad to imagine Davy in bed with a fever, trying hard to concentrate on Latin in a book full of verb lists and empty of stories. Davy just couldn't learn that way.

Not to mention Emmaline's progress in math had been halted.

She could still remember how to do long division, which was quite impressive- but now they were on fractions, and Mr. Browndale's teaching just wasn't cutting it. Paul tried to teach her too, in the same way he taught Davy Latin. But he just wasn't any good at generating math stories, and the one time he'd tried to teach her fractions using a pie, she'd ended up in tears- and he'd given her a slice to eat just to calm her down. Then he'd panicked, because neither of them was allowed to even touch the pie. He'd considered just baking a new one, but he lacked Davy's skill at frosting. Incredibly, Grandmother never even noticed.

Emmaline was pining for Davy, too- and not just for his mathematical wizardry. She'd stare out the window for hours at a time, twirling her hair and biting her lip, waiting. She never cried about this, but sometimes she'd go to bed with a very sad look on her young face. Paul dimly thought that such an attachment should be discouraged, especially since Emmaline was only nine- but he didn't have the heart to scold her or ridicule her out of her fancy. He could understand how a little girl could develop an infatuation for an older boy who made mud pies with her to teach her division, who knew how to frost a cake and do a spectacularly silent Indian walk- whose dimples probably had half the girls of his Queens class at each other's throats.

Even Grandmother was feeling off balance.

"Where's that Davy boy?" she asked Paul once. "We need him here to liven up this house."

Paul smirked for a moment at the idea of Grandmother's reaction if she only knew just how much Davy had been "livening" things up.

"I don't know," he said. "Anne said he wasn't feeling well."

"What's the matter with him? He seemed so healthy."

"Yes, that he did," said Paul without thinking. "I mean. I don't know. He's still going to school, as far as I know."

Grandmother thought for a moment. "What that boy needs is some shortcake," she declared. "I know how hard he's been studying. And I know how Marilla Cuthbert operates. She probably makes him go to bed without his supper if he's not finished with his work."

"She does that sometimes," said Paul.

She made that shortcake, and the next day she urged Paul to deliver it to him- which Paul was only too happy to do. He needed some answers from Davy. He'd tried to ascribe Davy's sudden departure and subsequent total absence to illness, but he couldn't shake the idea that he'd done something to precipitate it.

Paul went to Green Gables with shortcake the next day at 6PM, when he knew Marilla and Mrs. Lynde would be away at the Ladies' Sewing Circle until eight or nine. He did not want to deal with Mrs. Lynde. He didn't mind seeing Dora and Miranda, and he hadn't seen Anne in weeks, but he hoped they wouldn't distract him for too long. He was on a mission.

Dora and Miranda were sitting cross-legged on the porch swing, facing each other and winding brightly colored yarn around twig crosses. They waved when they saw Paul.

"What are you making?" he asked.

"Ojos de Dios," said Miranda.

It sounded like Latin, and Paul briefly brightened- until he realized he didn't understand what she'd said. "Come again?"

"Ojos de Dios," Miranda repeated. "They're a Mexican symbol of protection. It means Eye of God."

"That's interesting," said Paul, leaning over to get a closer look. "Where did you learn about that?"

"James," said Dora. "He spent a winter with the Huichol Indians in Mexico. He's been all over the world."

"Oh," said Paul shortly. He hadn't forgotten the Tomato Incident- the first and only time he'd met James. He bit back all of his scathing comments because James was Miranda's brother. Once Miranda had punched him. She'd been eleven, and it had been at recess. She's been laughing, and a group of girls had been egging her on. He knew she'd only been playing- likely just trying to get his attention- but his upper right arm had been blue and green for days.

"Do you two know where Davy is?" he asked.

"Probably studying in his room," Dora sighed. "Paul, what _did_ he do to you?"

"What?"

"Did he break your grandmother's French china?"

"Not that I know of," said Paul, scratching his neck and resolving to check the china cabinet as soon as he went home.

"Did he track mud in your kitchen?"

"Dora- what are you talking about?" asked Paul.

"Why hasn't he been studying with you? Miranda and I have been trying to figure out why he won't go back to your house anymore. He must have done something bad that he doesn't want to get punished for." At this, Miranda let out a low chuckle. Paul ignored her. Miranda was a little weird.

"Hasn't he said anything to you?" asked Paul.

"He won't talk about it," said Dora, setting aside her yarn cross.

"He won't talk about _anything_," added Miranda. "He doesn't go adventuring with James anymore either. He's stopped playing outside, and he's even stopped pestering Anne."

"Well, he is sick, isn't he?" said Paul.

"Maybe," said Dora doubtfully. "I've wondered- but he hasn't complained about anything. And you know how Davy loves to whine. Even Marilla is worried, though the fat cow keeps saying it's a mercy that Davy has learnt to rein in his tongue."

Paul blinked. A talking cow? And Davy had learnt to do _what_ with his tongue?

"I'm going to go find him," said Paul at last. "My grandmother sent him this cake. You two are welcome to it, as long as you don't tell Marilla or Mrs. Lynde."

"I'll take it!" said Miranda immediately, dropping her God's eye on the floor.

"Oh, no no," Paul chuckled. "I know you. You'll eat the whole thing in one sitting." Miranda pouted, looking ridiculous, and Paul swept into the house with the cake before she could pounce on it.

"Davy?" he called. "Davy, where are you?" He checked the parlor- no Davy. No Anne either. He checked the kitchen. He almost stowed the cake in the larder, but then he realized that whenever he found Davy, he wanted to be holding the cake so he'd have an excuse to be there.  
"Davy..." He checked all the rooms, leaving Davy's for last- sure he'd find him there, and hoping Davy wasn't sick in bed. But Davy wasn't in his room either.

"Davy Keith!" he called. He briefly wondered if Davy had gone to his grandmother's house. That would be just his luck- both of them at each other's houses looking for each other. He sighed. Then he heard voices from the backyard. He went out to look.

Davy was there, sprawled out in the grass (something he could only get away with when Marilla and Mrs. Lynde were out), with a thick book open in front of him. It was his Latin text. Paul felt a twinge of pity, and wondered who Davy had been talking to. Maybe it was the cow? Paul slunk closer, hoping he could see and here more before he was noticed.

"I don't care," Davy was saying in a low voice. "I can read about it in books if I want. I can travel when I'm grown up, on my own money."

"_Books?" _someone snorted. The deep voice sounded somewhat familiar. Paul leaned to the right and saw a large-nosed profile from behind a tree. "You've grown soft, my friend. Everybody in Avonlea is so dull, so ready to follow any path that's been cut for them. And now they've got you too. I thought you were different, Davy. I thought you could break out of the mold, learn to _see, _learn to really _live_. I guess it's too late. Sixteen years old and you're already one of the sheep."

"I'm not a sheep," Davy muttered, but he didn't sound angry. He just sounded tired.

"You disappoint me, Davy," said the man. "What are you going to do? Teach? Marry a Sloane girl who's exactly two years younger than you and make fat goggle-eyed children? Keep going to church every Sunday and fighting not to fall asleep in your pew? Gossip with the neighbors about the rising price of corn and how the Grits are ruining the country?"

"I have to study," said Davy. "Dora and Miranda are on the swing. You can go play with them."

"Both of them are studying for the same exams as you. And yet they have time for fun."

"It's not my fault if I have to work harder," said Davy. "Maybe they're just smarter or something. I don't care. If I have to study more in order to pass, so be it."

The man didn't leave, even though Davy pointedly turned a page.

"What do you want, James?" Davy sighed. "You keep insulting me. If you really think I'm so dull then why can't you just leave me alone? Or do you want a fight? You're not going to get one."

"Oh that's right. Miss Anne Shirley must have told you that little gentlemen use their words, not their fists."

"I don't have time for this, James."

By this time, Paul was about ready to punch James in the nose. But then Davy got up, picked up his book, and turned around to go inside the house. Paul got a good look at his face. He looked tired and a little gray, and that warm Davy sparkle was gone. Paul's heart sank as Davy trudged toward the door as though his shoes were weighed down with iron. Davy glanced around. He made eye contact with Paul, but then moved on like he hadn't seen anything. Then his eyes came back.

"Paul?" he said incredulously.

"Hi, Davy," said Paul softly.

"Paul- what are you doing here?" Davy looked flustered, but it was an improvement. At least that was a sign of life.

"My grandmother sent this cake for you," said Paul.

"Uh- thanks," said Davy. He went to take the cake from Paul. His hands touched Paul's for a split second before Davy jerked back. He cleared his throat and tried again- Paul carefully passed it into his hands. Davy avoided Paul's eyes as he opened the box.

"Wow! Shortcake!" The sparkle was back. "Thank you, Paul! Let's go in and eat this!" Davy rushed to the door with the cake. Paul followed.

"Davy," said a deep voice behind them. Both boys turned around. "This isn't over."

Davy just looked at James for a moment before entering the house without a word. Paul didn't follow, though. He had something to say to James.

"Hey, you," he said. He didn't raise his voice, but James turned to him. "You leave Davy alone, do you understand?"

James sneered. "Who do you think you are, pretty-boy?"

"You know who I am. I'm Paul Irving. Davy's friend. You know- the kind of friend who doesn't throw tomatoes at him or try to sabotage his studies."

James raised his eyebrows. "Don't talk about things you don't understand," he said.

"I don't want to understand you, James. I've seen enough."

"Little boy, you do _not_ want me as your enemy," said James, drawing himself up to full height- Paul was still taller.

"I don't want to be your enemy," said Paul. "I don't want to be your enemy, your friend, your anything. I don't care to know what you're trying to convince Davy to do. I just want you to leave Davy alone. And Davy wants that too, as he has made abundantly clear in the past five minutes- and has probably told you many times before."

James snickered- but didn't say anything. He just stood there looking rather foolish.

Paul turned on his heel and went inside. It wouldn't do to keep Davy waiting too long.

Davy was already digging into the cake, with better manners than he'd shown when he was eight- but undiminished relish. Paul swore he could actually see the color returning to his face.

"Want some?" he asked between mouthfuls. Paul grabbed a plate and cut himself a slice, making a mental note to thank his grandmother again. He waited until Davy was done eating (5 slices! the boy must have been starving!) before attempting to talk to him.

"So Anne told my grandmother that you were sick," said Paul. "What's up?"

"I'm- I'm-" Davy blinked.

"You seem healthy, to have eaten that much cake," said Paul. "You look a little tired though."

"I've been studying a lot," said Davy.

"Oh," said Paul. He waited for Davy to elaborate. Davy just fidgeted.

"Davy," Paul began. "I just- I have to know. What happened? You took off from my house and never came back. Did I do something wrong?"

"No," said Davy quickly. Again, Paul waited. Now there seemed to be a little too much color in Davy's face. Paul wondered if Davy had a fever.

"Did Emmaline?"

"No," Davy chuckled. "She's fine." Davy didn't quite meet Paul's eyes.

"Emmaline misses you," said Paul quietly. "She might be, you know," Paul bit his lip. "Gone on you, or something." He got an idea. "Is that why you don't come over anymore? Because Emmaline's gone on you and it makes you feel awkward?"

"Yes," said Davy immediately. "Yes. That's what it is. You've hit the nail on the head."

"Really," said Paul.

"Yeah! And I didn't tell you before, because- well it's awkward! She's your baby sister. And she's such a little girl."

Davy was talking too fast.

"Davy," said Paul. "You're lying."

"No I'm not," said Davy.

Paul sighed. This was going nowhere. "Look, Davy. I get it- you don't want to tell me why you're not coming over anymore. But will you please, please come back? Emmaline really needs help with math."

"Can't you help her?" asked Davy.

"I'm trying," Paul sighed. "But math has never been my forte."

"But she's _nine! _She doesn't even do hard math yet!"

"I know that," said Paul irritably. "I can _do_ her math- I'm just no good at _teaching_ it." Paul straightened his collar. "How's your Latin coming?"

"Good. Great," said Davy.

"Really."

"Thanks for the cake, Paul," said Davy loudly, getting up. "Be sure to tell your grandmother I said thank you." He picked up his own plate, and Paul's, and put them in the sink.

"What's going on with James?" said Paul bluntly.

"I don't want to talk about it," said Davy.

"Then what _do_ you want to talk about?"

"Nothing. I have to go do Latin."

"Well- I'm here now! I can teach you."

"Really, Paul, I'm just fine on my own. Better than fine." Davy paced around. "Hey- Miranda and Dora are outside! They haven't seen you in ages- want to go say hello to them?" Davy strode to his own room, book in tow, and shut the door.

Paul sank his head onto his arms at the kitchen table.

"It's all right," he told himself. "I'll stay here until Anne gets home. Maybe I can get some answers from her." He did not want to go back home still confused. If he didn't find out what was going on, he wouldn't get any sleep that night.


	3. Ch 11

Chapter 11

Davy paced around and around his room. He needed help. Serious help. Not just with Latin. With life.

He'd been brushing James off- he'd forced himself to be brusque and borderline rude, and also to pretend that he didn't care at all what James said. But James was raising questions in his mind. Why was he doing this? Who was he taking these exams for? What did he want out of life?

"I'm too young to deal with this," he said aloud.

He wondered if he would be feeling this way if studying came easily to him, the way it did for Dora. He'd never exactly enjoyed school. There were subjects that fascinated him- but there had always been subjects he'd hated. But because he had never had the option _not_ to go to school, he'd dealt with it- and until Latin came into his life, he'd never been absolutely hopeless at a subject.

And now James was offering to whisk him away from this life- from Latin and teaching and tedium. Not that teaching would be too bad- but he didn't know if that was what he wanted. The only thing he'd always wanted to do was explore- and James was giving him a chance to do just that.

But James was feeding him insults, whereas Paul was feeding him cake.

Paul.

When Davy had seen Paul in his backyard, after another awful talk with James, he'd assumed Paul was a figment of his imagination. Because he so thoroughly suppressed any thought of Paul that came to mind during the day, Paul haunted his dreams every night. But it wasn't like his seedpod boat nightmare anymore. They weren't nightmares at all. In fact, they were- Davy blushed beet red at the flashes of dream-memory. Swimming with Paul in a waterfall at midnight, having a splash-fight. There was nothing wrong with that. Boys swam together all the time. Wrestling by the Lake of Shining Waters (as Anne called it): that was all right too. Boys who didn't fight weren't real boys. But Davy had never wrestled that- close- with anyone. At least, not since he was about six, back before personal space was an issue. Still, there was nothing wrong... but the dreams made Davy feel so odd, and so oddly sinful.

Davy groaned and faceplanted into his pillow. This happened with alarming frequency lately. He dazedly wondered when the pillow would revolt and hit him in the face when he least expected it.

_He was in a cave full of exquisite marble statues, of a lady with a harp, a young forlorn girl with long hair and big reproachful eyes, and two thoroughly salty-looking pirates on a ship. Davy wandered amongst them, enthralled by how beautiful and lifelike they were. Then he saw another statue, under an inexplicable natural skylight. The statue glimmered in the shaft of sunlight, an Adonis in a jaunty beret, staring dreamily into the distance. As Davy approached this wondrous sculpture, it spoke. _

"_I made these," it said, flicking a chestnut curl from its forehead. That was no statue. That was Paul. "Sculpted them from my own imagination."_

"_Wow," breathed Davy._

"_I want to make a statue of you, too," said Paul, in that same echoey voice. _

"_Me? Nah," said Davy. _

"_Why not?"_

"_I'm not- beautiful, like these people," said Davy, gesturing around. Paul snorted._

"_You call them beautiful?" He gestured toward the old pirates, who were ugly as sin, but their faces held such character that one didn't notice at first. "Besides, I beg to differ," he added. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more-"_

"_Hey! I know that one!" Davy cut him off. "Rough winds do shake the darling birds of prey..." Paul didn't laugh. He was too busy drawing rapid strokes on a gigantic sketch pad. Within seconds, he held it up. It was a perfect minimalistic likeness of Davy- too perfect. Davy was pretty sure he didn't look that good when he washed his face and looked in the mirror. Paul's pencil had accentuated his dimple, made his eyes gleam with merriment, made his hair fall in alluring curls rather than the mess Davy imagined it usually looked._

"_This will do for a sketch," said Paul. "But in order to sculpt you from marble, I need a three-dimensional perspective." _

"_Do you- do you want me to turn so you can draw a profile?" Davy asked shyly. _

"_No," said Paul. "Come here."_

_Davy came a few steps closer. The sunlight was blinding. _

"_Closer," said Paul. _

_Davy ascended the pedestal on which Paul's oak stool was perched. _

"_Close your eyes," Paul whispered. Davy obeyed, dizzy from the shower of sun that now drenched them both. Davy felt soft hands running through his hair, down his face, down his neck, to his shoulders..._

"Davy?"

Davy promptly rolled off his bed and hit the floor.

"C-can I come in?" That wasn't Dora, or Anne, or Marilla. That was Paul.

"Just a second," said Davy. Then he kicked himself. He should've said no, or pretended to still be asleep.

Davy had a glass of water in his room. He dumped it on his face. It was cold- which was good. He tried to think of something else as he wiped his face with a towel. Latin verbs. How annoying James had been. His uncertain future. Mrs. Lynde. That did it.

Davy opened the door.

"Are you all right?" asked Paul. Davy panicked for a moment, then realized Paul was probably just being polite.

"Yeah," said Davy. "Guess I just drifted off... How long was I asleep?"

"I was out talking to Dora and Miranda for about ten minutes, then I came in," said Paul. "So- ten minutes, I guess."

"Oh," said Davy. "Okay."

Paul shifted from foot to foot.

"Thanks again for the cake," Davy blurted.

"No problem," said Paul.

Davy ran his hands through his hair, hoping it didn't look too awful.

"What are you worried about?" Paul asked.

Davy panicked again. "What do you mean?"

"You're all fidgety like a squirrel," said Paul.

Davy forced a laugh. "I'm _Davy_. I fidget. It's what I _do." _

Silence reigned once more, as Davy and Paul just looked at each other.

"I wish you'd tell me what's wrong," said Paul. "I still feel like I did something."

_Oh, you did something all right_, Davy thought. Then he mentally punched himself.

"You didn't," said Davy. "I've just been really anxious about exams. I think- I think I've been having too much fun, and I've been doing too little studying. So I'm trying to study on my own now so I make better use of my time."

"Are you kidding? You learn far more from two hours with me, than from two days of trying to muddle through that awful textbook," said Paul.

"You know, Paul, pride is a deadly sin," said Davy. "Heathen."

Paul punched his arm. "So is sloth, sleepyhead," he said. "Not to mention gluttony. _Five _pieces of cake? In fact, I think that counts as avarice too."

"Now don't incite me to _wrath_, or I might just punch you back," Davy said, though at the moment Paul's mischievous grin was inciting him to a different deadly sin entirely.

"You know, it's funny," said Paul, advancing into the room and sitting on Davy's bed. "Everybody remembers the seven deadly sins, but nobody remembers the seven capital virtues. Why is that?"

"Maybe because we want to know exactly what kinds of depravity we need to avoid most," said Davy, sitting next to him.

"Or because we all assume we're going to hell, and so it intrigues us more than a heaven we'll never reach," said Paul lightly. Davy raised his eyebrows. This was not Paul Irving, Sunday-school model child. "It's true," he continued. "Everybody reads Dante's _Inferno_, but no one reads _Purgatorio _or _Paradiso_."

"Maybe if they can clearly imagine how bad hell is, they have more incentive to try to be good," said Davy. They continued talking pleasantly about good and evil for half an hour. Then they heard the door open. Mrs. Lynde and Marilla were back.

"You should probably go home," Davy sighed. "Your grandmother's going to be worried."

"She'll be fine," said Paul. But he got up- reluctantly, Davy thought. Both boys went out to the parlor, where Mrs. Lynde's carrying voice was telling Marilla all about how the Pye farm was doomed to fail under Joshua Pye's airheaded son's mismanagement.

"Oh, good, you're here," said Mrs. Lynde. "I was wondering when Davy would come to his senses. It's time he made some _actual progress_ in Latin again."

Davy froze. Paul looked at him.

"What's going on, Davy?" he asked quietly.

"The boy's been slaving away over Latin, dear," said Mrs. Lynde. "But surely you know that. He tries and tries. The simple truth is he's absolutely incapable of learning it for himself, but he's too stubborn to ask for help. That's exactly what Mr. Browndale told Marilla on Thursday, isn't that right Marilla?"

Marilla didn't reply- she just wished Mrs. Lynde could turn off the talking faucet once in a while. Paul just stared.

"Oh, but don't worry, Paul," said Mrs. Lynde kindly. "I'm sure you'll set him right in no time. You're a good boy, and a fine teacher."

"Right," said Paul. "I, uh, should be going." He turned to Davy. "So you'll come to my house after school tomorrow, right Davy?" he asked loudly.

Davy just stood there, shocked at how much anger he felt at Mrs. Lynde at that moment. He really, actually wanted to punch the old woman. And he'd never wanted to punch an old woman before.

"Go on, Davy. You need it," Mrs. Lynde urged. "Those girls are _still_ outside making those heathen artifacts! I wouldn't encourage that sort of unchristian nonsense if I were you, Marilla my dear."

"Y-yes," Davy choked out. "I'll be there."

"Good boy," said Mrs. Lynde. "I'm going to go talk to those girls. And _where_ is Anne? Surely she's not still gadding about at Gilbert's house? It's perfectly scandalous, how much time she spends with him."

"They are engaged, Rachel," said Marilla.

"Yes, but they're not _married_ yet! And it's after dark! Good Lord in Heaven, what is happening to today's youth?" Mrs Lynde burped loudly. "Excuse me. It must've been the bean casserole."

Davy had had enough. "Goodbye Paul," he said. He went back to his room.

_On the bright side, now I know what to do when I'm feeling- girly about Paul_, Davy thought. _I just have to think about Mrs. Lynde. _


	4. Ch 12

CHAPTER 12

The next day, Davy trudged to the Irving mansion. Mr. Browndale's sorrowful look at Davy's attempt at Latin translation, combined with the fact that Paul was now expecting him (and all of Green Gables expected him to go), convinced him that there was no way he could avoid going. He just needed to make sure no- silly thoughts slipped into his mind. And if Paul asked, he needed to come up with an alternate explanation for why he'd so strenuously avoided Paul and his house.

"Maybe I can say it's just because I didn't want to become dependent on him for learning," Davy told himself, kicking a pebble down Lover's Lane. "Because- because I need to be able to succeed in Queen's on my own. I was forcing myself to learn independence. Yeah. That works." Davy knew Queens students were not required to take Latin- it was an elective that he would most certainly not elect to take, and Davy could hold his own decently in every other subject. But he didn't need to mention that to Paul. In fact, it was a perfect, handy excuse. And then- then he could explain that he was coming back now because he hadn't realized before that he wouldn't need to take Latin at Queen's.

"But what about Emmaline?" he thought, just when he'd stopped kicking the pebble and had started swinging his arms again. "How can I justify deserting her in her math peril? Could I just say I was avoiding the whole house because I didn't want to fall into temptation to get help from Paul?" That was certainly true- except for the nature of the temptation.

Davy didn't understand his feelings. He had always known that Paul was good-looking, even though he and the other boys had also found his looks sissyish. What kind of boy had such creamy skin, such a pretty face? A sissy. But girls loved him. Girls had always whispered and giggled, and when they were eleven, Davy had overheard Dora telling Miranda that if she could pick any boy to kiss, it would be Paul Irving.

The trouble was, when they had finished making that cake, Davy had wanted to kiss him too. And he didn't understand it.

The idea of a boy kissing another boy confused Davy. He'd never heard of it, and it didn't make sense to him. Boys wanted to kiss girls. And girls wanted to kiss boys too, though sometimes girls kissed each other, but Davy didn't think that was the same thing (except in the case of Minnie May and Averil-Marguerite). Anne kissed just about everybody on the cheek, but she only kissed Gilbert on the lips, and that was just when she thought no one was looking. And Davy had kissed girls before, on the lips, and that was a lot more fun than being kissed on the cheek, which was usually just annoying. Yet if James, who was Anne's age, ever kissed anyone on the anything, it would be very strange.

Kissing was so complicated. There were so many things to consider about it- and Davy had never thought about it so much before, not even the first time he'd kissed a girl on the lips. That was Mirabel Cotton, last year. Mirabel was raggedy and roguish, like her brothers. The Cottons were an odd bunch, of whom "decent" Avonlea families disapproved. Davy was playing with the Cottons after Sunday-school, and everybody wanted to go fishing, but Mirabel had elected to stay behind. She'd stolen the hired boy's denim overalls and rough gingham shirt. She was sitting on the back of the carriage full of hay bales, chewing a piece of straw, staring out in space. Something about her expression made Davy want to stay behind, too. He'd wanted to know what she was thinking about. He'd hopped up beside her, watching her gaze at the sunset, and thought she looked strangely alluring in spite of (or maybe because of) the dirt on her face, the frayed overalls instead of a dress, and her long brown hair free of any sort of braiding or hairpins, just whipping in the wind. Davy and Mirabel understood one another- she often asked about his seedpod boat design, and she would join in when he'd wax enthusiastic about the math behind it. But at that moment Davy was contented with the silence. She'd given him a look- brash and bold, like everything else she did- and then abruptly reached for his face and kissed him. They'd broken apart, and she'd commented "Hm. That was fun." They'd kept at it for about ten minutes. Davy hadn't known what he was doing, but Mirabel didn't seem to notice or care. Then she'd let go of him, hopped off the haybale, and said "I'm Tom and you're Huck. We're trapped in a cave, and Injun Joe is around the corner, so we need to build reinforcements." And just like that, they were playing, the same way Davy played with Milty Boulter. Davy expected Mirabel to hold his hand at recess, to cut their initials into the tree, to tell the other girls that she had a beau- but Mirabel didn't do any of these things. She never mentioned it. Davy spent a few days looking around at the other boys and wondering if Mirabel had kissed them too- because she treated all the boys and girls in her class the same.

Davy hadn't kissed many girls since then. As Davy continued on his path, he realized that he'd never wanted to kiss anybody so badly as he'd wanted to kiss Paul, that day. And he had _never _felt such a tingling in his body, the way he'd felt since then, every time he thought or dreamed about Paul.

He saw the Irving mansion loom on the horizon. Great. He was almost at Paul's house, and he'd been thinking about kissing. Not good.

Paul knew Davy was coming over after class. He'd watched Davy revive when he'd eaten his grandmother's shortbread, so he tried his hand at making some of his own. He had spare time. He was taking a semester of independent study at home, for his health, and he was far ahead in everything. Completing the standard Classics course of study was hardly a challenge to Paul Irving.

After successfully making shortbread, Paul was having so much fun that he just kept baking. Not everything he made looked great, but it all tasted wonderful. Paul enjoyed the thought of fixing whatever ailed Davy by feeding him homemade cakes, cookies and delicacies. A grin spread across his face as he thought of the shine that he was sure would appear in Davy's eyes after one bite of fruit tart. The best part of all was that both Grandmother and Emmaline would be gone all day: she was going to pick Emmaline up after school and take her to Mrs. Elliot's to be fitted for her first communion dress, and then they had to buy her veil and jewelry from town.

Paul couldn't restrain himself from running to the window at every small noise, over an hour before Davy was due to arrive. When there was no more flour or sugar in the house, he had to stop baking. To distract himself, he thought out a lesson plan for when Davy came over. After this, just to give himself something to do, he carried all of the baked goods up to the study, along with a bottle of raspberry cordial. He'd have a nice surprise waiting for Davy. As he was carrying the last pie, he heard a knock at the door.

"Davy!" Paul tucked the lemon meringue pie under his arm and darted to the door. Davy was there, Latin books in tow, looking tense.

"Is that lemon meringue pie?" Davy asked, eying Paul's arm. Paul nodded shyly. "Is it for us?" he asked. Paul nodded again. Davy looked around. "Where's Emmaline? Is she allowed to have some?"

"Emmaline and Grandmother are out for the whole day," said Paul. "She's getting ready for her First Holy Communion, and they're going shopping for dresses and such."

"Oh," said Davy. He'd hoped he could distract himself by teaching Emmaline math for as long as possible.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in!" said Paul. "Let's go up to my study. I have a special lesson plan to get you up to speed in Latin."

"You have your own _study?" _said Davy, following Paul. Paul grinned.

"This way," he said, carrying the pie up a twisting mahogany staircase. Paul was practically running. He led Davy through the hall and kicked the ajar door open. "This is my room."

There was a bookcase tumbling over with lovely leather-bound, gilt-edged volumes in slight disarray: Davy supposed the meticulous Paul had been using these books a great deal if he didn't bother tidying them. There was a plush maroon couch and a matching easy chair, a Persian rug spread over the floor, and a rosewood escritoire covered in papers. The papers seemed to be notes of some sort, overspread with Paul's elegant handwriting, and Paul had a heavy blue fountain pen and inkstand. But the most wonderful thing was the lovely smell of cake. Davy gasped.

He hadn't even noticed the glass coffee table on the rug, sagging under the weight of a wonderful variety of cakes, pies and tarts.

"Paul," he gasped. "Are those-"

"For us," said Paul, beaming. "Grandmother will never know that we ate them up here."

Davy stared, speechless. Paul calmly set the lemon meringue pie on the only free corner of the table.

"Wait here," said Paul. "I forgot the plates and silverware." Paul scampered out of the room.

Davy hardly knew what to do first when Paul was out of the room. He wanted to examine the bookshelf- it occurred to him that he had only the vaguest idea of what Paul was studying besides Latin. He wanted to snoop through the notes on the desk. He wanted to pull the cord of the loose panel on the ceiling- there had to be something hidden up there. He wanted to peek through the door of the adjoining room, where he was sure Paul slept. And he wanted to taste one of the small, exquisite fruit tarts, covered in sugared Avonlea strawberries. But before he could do any of that, Paul was back.

"Dig in," he said. He handed Davy a heavy silver fork and knife.

"Where can we eat?" Davy asked.

"The floor," said Paul. Davy gaped.

"The _floor?_ Do you mean- the _rug?_"

"Sure," said Paul.

"But won't we make a mess?"

"Young Mary Joe will clean it up," said Paul airily. "She won't tell Grandmother. I'll make sure of it."

"A-all right," said Davy, who still felt uneasy. If Marilla or Mrs. Lynde knew he was sprawling on an expensive rug and eating cake off it... He tried the shortcake first. Delicious. Scrumptious golden melt-in-your-mouth buttery sweetness.

"Won't your grandmother realize all this food has mysteriously vanished?"

"She doesn't even know I made it," Paul laughed. Davy raised his eyebrows.

"I thought you didn't know how to bake," he commented.

"I'm a fast learner," said Paul.

"Braggart," said Davy.

"What? It's true. Admit it."

"Never."

"Fine then. No more cake for you." Paul went to swipe the cake plate from Davy's hand.

"No! No! I take it back!" cried Davy. Paul chuckled as he ate a small slice of lemon meringue pie. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. Paul enjoyed the expressions of rapture that flitted across Davy's face as he relished the delicacies. Davy was too caught up in the desserts to even look at Paul- which suited him just fine.

"We should probably get started on Latin," said Paul at last, when both of them were getting a bit full. The lead weight returned to Davy's insides. Would Paul interrogate him now?

Paul did not. He walked over to the bookshelf. "I assume you're rather far behind in Latin," he said, "so I'm not going to drill you in verbs just yet. I think we can start out with something easier. I have Latin versions of some of Plato's dialogues. Have you read any Plato?"

"No," said Davy, blushing.

"Good," Paul said. "If you'd read him before, this exercise won't help you at all," Paul explained. "I want you to read passages and tell me what they mean in English. And if there's a word you don't know, you can ask me, and I'll tell you what it means."

Davy brightened. That did not sound too bad.

"Sorry we aren't playing with soldiers today," said Paul, as he contemplated the titles. "But your exam is only a few weeks away, and I really need to gauge where you are so I can help you more efficiently."

Davy bit his lip. Paul was expending so much effort to help him- yet he was avoiding Paul's house and having dreams that he was sure would horrify Paul. Davy's conscience pricked his insides, and he resolved to be a model Latin student.

"Aha," said Paul, finally choosing the slimmest volume. "_Phaedrus._ This one I know almost by heart, so I don't have to look on with you." He tossed Davy the brown leather-covered book. "All right. Just open up to a random page and start translating."

Davy finished the last bit of tart he was holding, wiped his fingers on the snow-white cloth napkin, and did as he was told, haltingly translating.

"The lover will block his beloved from society- he will keep him from the wealthy, in case their wealth exceeds his own, and from the educated, in case they're superior to him in intelligence, and he is just as scared of- I don't know this word."

Paul scooted over to Davy. "Influence," he said. "Here- let me get you a notebook, so you can write down the words you don't know." He went to the escritoire and brandished a new, clean notebook and pen for Davy.

"Thanks," said Davy. He thought of how nice it would be, to have enough money to keep spare notebooks lying around and dispense them as carelessly as Paul did. "How am I doing so far?"

"Pretty good," said Paul. "Better than I expected."

Davy blushed with pleasure as he jotted down the Latin word and its definition. He continued translating. "If he can convince you to break with them, you will be left without any friends- and if you have better sense than to listen to him, you will- here's another word I don't know."

Paul leaned over Davy's shoulder again, his curls brushing against Davy's white shirt. "Quarrel," he said. Davy accordingly wrote the word and definition in his book, and discreetly drew a little away from Paul. It wouldn't do to get distracted now.

"Quarrel with him. But those who are not lovers will not be jealous of the companions of their beloved..."  
"What's the matter?" said Paul: Davy's jaw had dropped, and he was staring into space as though he'd stumbled upon a shocking, unpleasant revelation.

"James," said Davy.

Paul immediately glanced out the window. He sighed with relief- no James there.

"What about James?" asked Paul.

Davy said nothing- his eyes widened more and more. Davy didn't know or care who this Phaedrus was- but Phaedrus was describing James to a T. James was Davy's friend- he'd always said so, and Davy had worshiped him since he was ten. James had given Davy presents and told him stories. He'd shown him some of the best times Davy had ever had. The only person Davy had revered higher than James was Anne.

And now, James was quarrelsome with Davy- he was petty- he kept insulting Davy's friends. James had never met Anne, but had mocked Davy when he'd waxed poetic about her- until Davy had punched his arm. And James also seemed to hate Paul.

James was jealous- of _everybody. _And he wanted to take Davy to India, to whisk him off to a new land where he'd be away from all of his other friends- where they wouldn't know anybody, where they would only have each other, and where James would have the power to make Davy do whatever he wanted- because it was his money.

James was not content to be one of Davy's many friends. James wanted to be- wanted to be his...

Davy burned red with embarrassment, confusion- and shame.

"Davy?" said Paul cautiously.

Davy dared not look at Paul.

He felt a little sick, when he realized James might be having dreams that featured him, the way his own dreams featured Paul Irving. The thought of doing such things with James made Davy shudder.

He wondered if Paul would shudder too, knowing what thoughts lurked in Davy's mind about him.

"Davy- are you all right?" said Paul again. "Do you want some raspberry cordial?"

Davy shook his head forcefully. "No," he said. He forced a smile. "I'm fine. I'm just- pressure of the exams and all that."

"All right," said Paul uncertainly. "Why don't we take a break? We can go swimming in the stream."

"No! No, uh, thank you. Here. Let me have the book- I'll keep translating." Davy snatched the book from Paul and kept going, hoping further translation would erase the blush from his face, and keep his mind off of his unpleasant epiphany. He forced himself to focus entirely on the act of translation, and not to worry about what Phaedrus and Socrates were actually saying.

Paul listened to Davy's translation, and interjected whenever Davy didn't know a word (which was reassuringly rare), but he knew something was up. He also knew that Davy would not tell him until he was ready, but he couldn't help wondering, couldn't help feeling some concern for his uncomfortable friend. He could tell that Davy understood little of what he was translating- he was only concerned with the superficial meanings of the sentences, so they could be translated one by one and then forgotten. He was almost upset about this, for Plato's sake- but Davy would have plenty of time to really analyze Plato later.

"'The victim of passions and the slave of pleasure will want to make his lover like him as much as possible...'" recited Davy mechanically. Paul blinked at this. For some reason that line made him uneasy.

Davy was reading, obviously still troubled, but not looking at Paul at all.

Paul concluded that the heat and the cake were probably doing things to his sleepy brain. He pinched his own hand. He felt better.

They heard a clatter.

Paul jumped.

"They're not supposed to be back yet," he whispered.

"Maybe they aren't," said Davy.

But then they heard Grandmother Irving's scolding voice.

"Emmaline, stop that ridiculous crying _right now! _What a scene you made!"

"But I want the silver pendant," sobbed the little girl.

"You're too small to wear such a large trinket, Emmaline. A pretty day that will be, when I allow my own granddaughter to parade herself in church ornamented like a shameless heathen!"

"It's a _cross_, Grandmother! How can I be a heathen when I'm wearing a _cross?"_ They heard another clatter and more scolding.

Paul swore.

"Should we go down?" whispered Davy.

"No," he said. "Let's go _up _before they find us. Hurry!"

Paul grabbed a cake and strode to the corner of the room with the rope. He pulled it down. A rope ladder dropped, and Paul began climbing. "Pass me the cakes one by one," Paul hissed. Davy, bewildered, did as he was told. In less than a minute all the cakes, plates, and silverware were cleared from the room. "Bring the book," said Paul, and Davy grabbed _Phaedrus_ and shimmied up the rope ladder. Paul took his hand, hauled him up, and slammed the hatch shut.

This attic was crammed with even more fascinating objects than Paul's study. A single rose window admitted the early-evening sunlight into the slanted roof, illuminating Chinese vases, end tables, lamps, chair cushions, and blankets shoved up against one wall. Dusty books lay everywhere on the furniture and the old wood floor. Brass candelabras- with half-used candles still inside them- gleamed from every corner. And, best of all- much of the wood floor was covered in a brown bear rug, with outrageously, luxuriously thick fur.

"As long as we're quiet, they'll never think to look for us here," said Paul. "They might think I'm at your house. And maybe they'll go back out and continue shopping once Emmaline calms down."

"I didn't know Emmaline had a temper," whispered Davy.

"You don't have to whisper," whispered Paul. Davy swatted his arm, and he grinned.


	5. Ch 13

Chapter 13

"I lost my place," sighed Davy, flipping through the book vainly.

"That's all right. Just open to a random page again," said Paul.

As Davy flipped to a page later in the book, Paul thought he looked better now. More serene, more relaxed in the tangerine-hued light filtering into the dusty window. He'd sprawled out on the bear rug, and he was nibbling shortbread absently.

"'When he is with the lover, both cease from their pain, but when he is away, then he yearns as the lover yearns for him-"

Now it was Paul's turn to start. That was how he'd spent the better part of the last two weeks- _yearning _for Davy.

He had been far too excited about Davy coming over, far too happy about the prospect of making him sparkle and smile again with his cakes. But perhaps he was just being a good friend- no. Paul would not have gone to such lengths for Dora. And if it had been Dora tied to the tree before, he would not have heeded her request to "just leave us alone"- nor would he have felt so hurt about it.

Try as he might, Paul could find no satisfactory excuses, no alternate explanations. He couldn't fool himself anymore. Red and white waged war in his cheeks as he put words to his problem.

He was in love with Davy.

And Davy did not feel the same way.

Of course he didn't. Why else would he have run away when they were making cake and Paul had hugged him? Why else would he have continuously told Paul to stay away, and avoided him, and acted so flustered and angry whenever Paul was around before Paul had helped him with Latin? Why was he so upset when he learned that Paul would be teaching him Latin- why had he shut down Paul's offer of friendship with a disgusting toad? Because Davy knew. Maybe he didn't _know _he knew- but his intuition told him he needed to stay away from Paul Irving or bad, bad things would happen.

Not to mention Davy had grown up under the jurisdiction of Mrs. Rachel Lynde, and with no background in the classics. He probably only knew of love as a chaste emotion toward family and a driving force to get married and make babies.

"-and has love's image lodged within him, which he calls and believes to be not love but friendship only, and his desire is as the desire of the other, to- what's this word?" Davy scrunched his forehead at Paul expectantly.

Slowly, and very reluctantly, Paul approached and leaned over Davy's shoulder. Davy thrust the book to the side, so Paul did not have to get too close to him- which made Paul both relieved and uneasy. Then Paul glanced down at the word Davy was pointing at: the Latin word for "to kiss."

He couldn't translate that word for Davy. He just couldn't.

"Uh- I don't know that one," lied Paul.

Davy blinked. This had never happened before.

"But you know Latin better than you know English," he said. "You write _poetry _in Latin."

"Yeah, well, there are some words I don't know," said Paul.

"You said you knew Phaedrus by heart," said Davy.

"What is this- an inquisition?" said Paul. "I think we've had enough of _Phaedrus_. Why don't we move on to another dialogue?"

"We'd have to go downstairs to get another book," Davy reminded Paul. "And I can still hear them yelling."

Paul inwardly swore. Of course Emmaline and Grandmother had to have the Biggest Row Ever right when it was most inconvenient for him. He didn't even have soldiers up here. There was no escape from _Phaedrus- _and no escape from the too-sharp, too-inquisitive Davy.

"Well- there's no Latin dictionary up here either, so I guess you'll just have to skip that part and move on," said Paul at last. "Want to flip to another passage?"

Davy was still unconvinced, but he did as he was told. Luckily, the random passage he picked was devoid of allusions to love, and after a few minutes, both boys had regained a semblance of equilibrium.

"I'm tired," said Davy. He yawned and stretched out on the rug, folding his arms under his head.

"Do you want to go home?" asked Paul quickly, because a good friend wouldn't try to trap Davy up there in the attic.

"Nah," said Davy. "I'm good here. I think I want to take a nap. That all right?"

"Sure," said Paul.

"What do you want to do?" Davy asked, looking at Paul through lazy slitted hazel eyes. The now pearly-pink sunlight from the window rested on the contours of one side of Davy's face, caught the soft folds of his shirt that condensed around his biceps, danced in his transparent blond hair...

"Paul?"

"Oh- uh, what?"

"What do you want to do?"

_Dangerous question_, thought Paul, before mentally emptying a cold bucket over his head. "Um, I don't know," said Paul. "Maybe I'll just eat more cake or something."

"Yeah," said Davy. His dreamy voice told Paul that he was drifting. "Mrs. Lynde says you're nothing but skin and bones anyhow."

"Am not," said Paul.

"Are too," said Davy, smirking. "I could snap you in half."

"Looking skinny runs in the family. I'm a lot stronger than I look."

"Emmaline's stronger than you," said Davy, his eyes sparkling merrily.

"No she's _not!"_

"She lifted me once. She could only hold me in the air for half a second, but I'm sure that's more than you can do."

"Now you're being childish," said Paul loftily. "We're not grammar-school kids anymore. I don't need to _prove_ my strength to you."

"Have it your way, weakling." Davy sighed happily and stretched again.

Paul was above this. He was not going to cave in to such an asinine challenge. He didn't care enough to wipe that smug grin off of Davy's dimpled face. The rosy sparks in Davy's eyes didn't bother him at all. And Davy might be bigger than him, but he was confident that he could lift the boy- so confident that he didn't need to prove it to himself.

Davy had closed his eyes and was whistling some obnoxious Yankee tune. "Glory glory Hallelujah" or something like that- Paul was sure Milty Boulter had taught it to him. Oh, he was frustrating.

The rug was soft and Davy was absorbed in his whistling, so he didn't hear Paul sneak up on him. He yelped when he felt an arm curl under his upper back, and another slide under his knees. Paul grunted, gave a mighty heave, and picked Davy up.

"I doubt Emmaline can do _this_," said Paul, grinning down into Davy's shocked face. He staggered a bit, but after the initial work of lifting, Davy wasn't that heavy. Davy instinctively wrapped his arms around his neck.

"Huh," said Davy, trying not to gape at how Paul's muscles bulged when flexed. Hidden powers. Davy wondered what Paul would look like without his shirt- no. It was happening again. The shameful tingling. Davy panicked and started babbling. "Uh, okay, you've proved your point, so you can put me down now. I'm not a baby, and I'm not a girl, so if you would kindly stop carrying me like one, that would be great, and, uh- Mrs. Lynde..."

"Mrs. Lynde?" Paul dropped Davy and ran to the window. No Mrs. Lynde. "Davy," Paul sighed. "Why do you _scare_ me like that?"

"Ow," Davy responded, wincing as he rubbed his bottom.

"Sorry," said Paul, scratching his neck and fixing his shirt, which had shifted. "Didn't mean to drop you. Want a tart?"

"Not from you. It's probably poisoned," muttered Davy, dusting the bear hairs off himself.

"Uh-huh," said Paul. "Because I poison my friends." He whirled around and picked up a tart. "Eat," he said, shoving it in front of Davy's face.

"No, thank you," said Davy- though he stared at the sugared strawberries.

"You know you want it," Paul whispered. "It's not poisoned- not at all. I'm under no orders to kill you, Julius Caesar. This isn't Cassius' new ingenious scheme."

"Suuuure," said Davy. "As if I'd believe you, Brutus, after that time you and your friends all tried to _stab_ me on the steps of the senate."

"Brutus? Don't you recognize me, Caesar? I'm Marc Antony! I only _look _like Brutus because I'm wearing a mask. To fool Cassius. Actually, this tart contains a magic spell to give you superpowers. This tart will enable you to read minds," said Paul, his voice low and coaxing.

"I still don't believe you," said Davy. Then he smirked. "If that's a mask- I should be able to peel it off, shouldn't I?"

"Uh- no! No, this is a permanent mask... it's been grafted to my flesh, and peeling it will hurt me, and sap the magical powers right out of that tart..."

Neither boy cared that their role-play had long since ceased to make any sense. Reality was suspended in this attic. The descending sun shined coral on their bodies and transformed the floating specks of dust into tiny diamonds. This was an ideal escape, a universe without worry or responsibility, without sisters or Mrs. Lyndes, without exams or propriety, where young men could play like little boys, where ancient ideas came alive, where it was natural to slip into alternate universes because the real one seemed a dream as well. In this universe, Davy could reach up and touch Paul's face, at first pretending to peel off a mask, but then forgetting the make-believe scenario the moment their skin connected, as Davy felt his fingertips tingle, as Paul involuntarily leaned forward into the touch of Davy's hands, where their eyes could meet, hazel and gold mingling with deep blue and purple. Paul's hand rose, and Davy was afraid for a moment that Paul was going to slap him or shove him away, but instead he covered Davy's hand on his own cheek. Paul saw Davy's pupils dilate, felt the hitch in Davy's breath, witnessed the flutter of Davy's golden eyelashes in the changing light.

Oh, this was what Davy wanted- what Davy had dreamed about, except better, because this was no bittersweet larger-than-life phantom. This was Paul Irving, the real life Paul Irving, drawing close to his face, thick-lashed eyelids drooping in desire over his deep, deep blue eyes, cheeks burning red and white with heat Davy could feel, that rogue chestnut curl whispering against Davy's forehead- his other hand winding around Davy's back, elegant tapered fingers pressing insistently into the taut flesh, impatient for Davy to acquiesce and shift his body forward, that delicious full mouth parting slightly to make way... and though he didn't understand it, there was absolutely no way Davy could stop himself now.

They tasted the sunset in each other's lips, sunset and shortbread and guilty secrets and moonlight reveries, and Davy was filled with a tingling that he knew he could not control if he wanted to, but his fogged mind believed that Paul did not mind. Paul was kissing Davy, with an expertise Davy had never known, and something far better than technique: passion. He hadn't felt this heat with Mirabel Cotton or any of the others- not even Lucy Gillis, who had professed to love him with all her heart. Paul removed his hand from Davy's back, gently lowering him so he could lie on the bear rug, and Davy shivered as the fur caressed his body through his thin filmy shirt. Paul looked down at him, one hand on each of Davy's shoulders, with eyes that burned with an iridescent fire too hot to be called blue or any other earthly color. Davy's head swam as though he had drank Marilla's entire store of blackcurrant wine- yet he had never felt more exquisitely awake.

Paul leaned down, and Davy closed his eyes, anticipating another kiss, but Paul's lips went to his ear instead. His cheek grazed Davy's as he whispered: "What do you want?"

Davy blinked. The last magenta rays of sunset filtered through the window, and the crystal dust glimmered all around him. He could feel Paul's heart against his own- both beating with rough undignified abandon. Paul's smooth hot body was a pleasant weight against him, and Davy could not resist sliding an arm around Paul and stroking his fingers through Paul's hair.

"I-I don't know," said Davy, shakily. "I've never done anything like this. I don't even know what we're doing."

"But you like it, right?" said Paul, still in his ear.

"Yes," said Davy.

"Then don't worry." Paul kissed his ear, then his neck, leaving Davy in an agony of tingling and indecision.

"Um, Paul- could you, uh-" Davy did not want to hurt Paul's feelings, and he _really_ didn't want Paul to get up. But he needed to think things through. "Could you please, uh, can we talk first?"

Paul sighed. Davy was right. They did need to talk. If they didn't, that meant Paul was taking advantage of a very confused Davy, and Davy would probably develop multiple complexes and would have no one to consult. He rolled off of Davy and lay beside him on the rug. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to compose himself, to calm the desire that threatened to break through his better judgment and seize Davy again. Then he turned to Davy, propping his head up on one hand with his elbow.

"All right," he said as calmly as he could. "Talk."


	6. Ch 14

Chapter 14

DORA

Dora wasn't terribly worried about Queens exams. She might not do wonderfully on geometry, but she'd do well enough to pass. All of her other subjects were decent at least. She had no trouble at all with history. The names and dates came easily to her when she had stories behind the events. The stories she didn't know she made up. Her mind had sketched so many pictures of battlefields, stories about individual soldiers to get her through each war, about common citizens to provide a lens into peacetime, and needless to say, she had furnished every king and queen's palace to perfection in her mind- complete with mischievous, deranged, benevolent, and evil ghosts of ancestors and vanquished enemies past.

Looking at Davy, though, she wished she could be that weak in just one subject. Just enough to secure a private tutelage contract with Paul Dreamboat Irving, or someone similar.

Dora was sick of hearing about Davy. Yes, she was worried about him. Yes, she hoped he would pass the exams. Yes, she thought Davy was in good hands with Paul. Yes, she did suspect that Paul rather enjoyed having Davy in his good hands. No, she did not think Paul was a sissifying influence. (The last was chiefly addressed to James, the second-to-last, to Miranda.) As much as she enjoyed this vacation from "kind" and "well-meaning" inquiries, she did wish someone might take an interest in Dora once in a while.

The only steady friend Dora had anymore, that she could count on, was Miranda. Anne was always visiting Gilbert or entertaining Gilbert, and when she was actually at Green Gables without Gilbert, she was too brimful of happiness to be much good at all. And James- James had basically forgotten that Dora existed.

Dora had always adored James. Not in the same way she'd adored Paul Irving when she was eleven, and not in the way she adored Anne either. It was different. Perhaps adoration was not the correct word. Admiration? Too sterile. Hero-worship? A bit, maybe?

When Dora and Davy had first met James, when he had come home to the Yates house and dispensed sea glass and stories to the twins, Dora was hooked. When they began taking walks and going on adventures with James, Dora was captivated by his waywardness, his carefree attitude toward the world- and his utter disregard for the rules that had nipped and tucked every aspect of life for as long as Dora could remember. It didn't hurt that he was a genius, that he'd gone off to college when he was hardly older than Dora had been, and that he'd spurned this safe path to forge his own.

Then there were the Night Vigils.

The Night Vigils started the summer Dora and Miranda were twelve. Miranda scrawled on Dora's slate, in school: "Meet me and James on the back porch of Green Gables at 9 tonight." Dora did not tell Davy, and obviously she didn't tell any grown-ups. She dutifully put on her woolen stockings so she wouldn't catch a cold and then face the inquisition of Marilla and Mrs. Lynde. She tiptoed out, skipping the creaky stair, bearing a candle and not knowing what to expect. They were both waiting for her in the late dusk, faces solemn in their excitement. Out into the woods they trudged, the three of them, swiftly and silently leaping over logs (James had to help Dora over one, and her twelve-year-old body had tingled at the touch of his large hands around her waist) until they reached a clearing. Then James lit a fire. He and Miranda had been carrying knapsacks, and he took a book out of his. _The Complete Poems and Stories of Edgar Allan Poe._ They passed the book around, reading aloud, louder and louder. It was so creepy in the warm windy night. James' hair blew around his animated firelit face like a dark hurricane. Dora felt wild, feral. She felt a thrill of scandalized delight as she imagined the look on Mrs. Lynde's face if she knew what dull, ladylike, model-child Dora was doing when she should have been sleeping in her prim little bed. As she watched James contort his face and voice into the shape of horror at the old man's eye, she too heard a sound like a watch wrapped in cotton.

The next Night Vigil did not come until three weeks later. Dora went whenever Miranda wrote "N.V." on the corner of her slate. The rest of the time, she wished for them, she reminisced about the Night Vigils with a secret smile, happy that no one knew about this except the three of them, the Dark Triumvirate, the rule-breakers. She doubted even the Cottons were this wild. She'd giggle to herself at her own naughtiness as she shelled peas in the unforgiving afternoon light in the kitchen with Marilla. She'd dream about more Night Vigils, extended Night Vigils that never ended, campfires that burned in crazy colors- stories come alive, folk tales and epics from distant lands unfolding around them under the big Avonlea sky. She'd imagine herself doing bold things. In her mind's eye, during a Night Vigil, James and Dora acted out the passionate repartee between Kate and Petrucchio from the beginning of _The Taming of the Shrew_ (which she'd just finished reading), and instead of passing the book back and forth, she sat next to James on the log, and let her shoulder brush his, and… Dora's young imagination could not go much further without quickening her breathing and staining her cheeks a deep, deep red.

Davy, of course, found out. He woke up in the middle of one night, apparently needing to relieve himself, and he saw Dora tiptoeing with her candle. Davy wasn't as good at tiptoeing as Dora (she was, after all, a girl), but he had practice with Milty Boulter's Indian-walk, and he followed her. Dora did not even notice. She slid open the French door and slipped out. As she turned back to shut the door, she saw Davy. She thought fast. She recognized there was no way to make Davy go back inside and still be able to go on her Night Vigil. So she let him come out too. Miranda and James were not there yet, and while they waited, she gave him a brief, whispered explanation of Night Vigils. He threatened to tell Mrs. Lynde if Dora didn't let him come along. Miranda and James arrived, and they were delighted to see Davy outside too.

So he began coming, and the Night Vigils were as wild as ever with four of them instead of three. Wilder. They would dance around the fire pretending to be the witches of Macbeth (with James, of course, as Hecate). They read books Dora had never heard of. Sometimes they did not read aloud at all, simply played at pretend. But for Dora, all the fun was lost. James' attention was always fixed on Davy. It was as though Dora no longer existed. Dora stood by, seething with jealousy, as James and Davy became firmer and firmer friends. Tom and Huck. Now that there was a boy around, it seemed James had no more use for girls, girls who needed to be helped over logs, who had to worry about tearing their dresses. Dora wondered if James would like her again if she wore Davy's trousers, or overalls like Mirabel Cotton sometimes did when she wasn't in school. Dirty overalls. Dora shuddered at the thought.

The next few summers, Night Vigils sometimes happened, but Dora always avoided them, pretending to be too tired, or to have a guilty conscience. (Davy believed her. James and Miranda did not.) She lay in bed, trying not to cry as she thought of the fun the three of them were having without her- but that was better than being there among them, forcing herself to look like she was having fun and feeling as reckless as she used to.

Miranda, Dora and Davy once tried to have a Night Vigil of their own, after James left that summer, but although all three children were imaginative, Night Vigils just weren't any _fun_ without James, without his uncanny ability to imitate a character so one could never again read the book without hearing his voice, his sharp big-nosed face with the dark eyes that burned like fire, his effortless command of every make-believe. After that, Dora never had a Night Vigil again.

She never told on Davy. It was a solid threat for whenever Dora was feeling particularly mean-spirited, or needed to exact a particularly demanding favor from Davy, but she couldn't do that to him. She got the sense that Davy enjoyed the Night Vigils as much as she once had, and after all, he was her brother. She couldn't take that away from him.

But now it was happening again. Not only was Paul Irving almost ignoring her, when they had a promising start to a renewed friendship when he'd come back- but James seemed to have lost himself along the way too, because of Davy.

What was it about Davy? Dora wondered. He was just a foolish, big-eared boy. He was her brother so she loved him- but why did she keep losing to him? Why did the affections of the boys and men she coveted invariably turn to him, rather than to her? Dora knew she was far prettier as a girl than Davy was handsome as a boy. She had a straight nose, while Davy had a snub nose. He had lopsided dimples, she had a symmetrical face. He was disorder incarnate, she was neat and proper. Also, Davy was a perfect dunce about feelings, both other people's and his own.

Dora just didn't understand. But it was happening again, and there were no Night Vigils this time. It wasn't that James was having too much fun with Davy to pay attention to Dora. It was that James was too preoccupied with worrying about Davy, bothering Davy, asking after Davy, practically _stalking _Davy to notice either Dora or Miranda. And Dora had much more free time than Davy, and she was much less harried. Dora could afford to spend time with James. Davy could not.

Life wasn't fair, Dora concluded. But one thing was for certain, Dora realized, the night after Paul Irving came to their house, after she had eavesdropped on the exchange between James and Paul- and discovered that James wanted to whisk Davy off to India for more grand adventures, would not take Miranda, and had not even thought to invite Dora.

Dora _hated_ James Yates.


	7. Ch 15

CHAPTER 15

Who wouldn't want to go to India with James? The idea was just so romantic, in the Anne Shirley sense, a thrill to the imagination. Dora knew a little bit about India from history classes in school, but her strongest impression of the country actually came from Shakespeare. In _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, Titania had once dwelt with her friend in "the spiced Indian air." Dora closed her eyes and tried to imagine the scent of spiced Indian air. An infusion of everything pungent and expensive in Marilla's baking cabinet, she decided. Cloves and cardamom and thyme and vanilla. How could people live, how could they function when the very air they breathed bore the dissolved particles of magic? How could they study or make their beds or wash dishes without slipping into daydream? Dora imagined being an Indian woman, draped in silk and carrying a pot on her head, walking "with pretty and with swimming gait" through a veil of blood-orange sunset, with peacocks dancing along the jungle path.

India.

With James.

James bedecked in a turban and huge jewels, walking beside her, doing peacock-calls that fooled the birds and caused them to swarm around the two of them in a flurry of blue and green. James playing a flute and charming a snake to dance, then serenading Dora alone. James and Dora visiting the Taj Mahal, alone on a moonlit night, beginning a legendary love story of their own.

"Dora."

"Huh?" Dora blinked and remembered where she was. Miranda's backyard, Avonlea, P.E. Island, Canada. Saturday afternoon. Sitting on a wicker chair with a geometry book closed on her lap.

"Dora Keith, were you _daydreaming?_" Miranda could do an uncanny Mrs. Lynde. "You were! What was it about?"

"Nothing," Dora mumbled.

"Oh come on, Dora! Tell me! Be it too charming for mine maidenly ears?"

Dora shoved Miranda's arm. Miranda chuckled.

"Oh, my! Dora Keith resorting to physical violence! That daydream must have been sweet indeed!"

Dora gave Miranda her second-steeliest glare. Miranda raised her hands.

"Sorry. Ready for your next question?"

"Yes."

"All right. Area of a triangle?"

"One half of the base times the height," said Dora primly.

"Good. Sine?"

Dora blinked. Was Miranda saying it was a good sign that Dora could answer the simplest of geometry questions?

"What is the formula for sine?"

"OH! Opposite over adjacent."

"Are you sure?"

"Stop playing games, Miranda."

Miranda chewed her lip. "Better look that one up," she said.

Dora tossed her head and opened her book to the formula sheet. There it was. Sine. Opposite over hypotenuse.

"I think I'm just tired," said Dora.

Miranda was about to suggest a break for tea, when they heard the squeak of the garden gate and the slow approach of footsteps.

"James!" exclaimed Miranda. "Where have you been, you rat?"

"Rat! I'll have you know I am a perfect sugarplum." Something vital was gone from his voice.

"Of course, of course," said Miranda. "Dora and I were just about to break for tea."

Dora couldn't help observing, from the corner of her eye, that he looked rather run-down, as though every muscle in his face were exhausted. Even his hair looked wilted, somehow, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

Dora's heart flirted with sympathy. Then she turned from it. Hate. She didn't care about James, didn't care about his misery. He hadn't even acknowledged her. He couldn't care less about Dora, so why should she concern herself with his foolishness?

"So where did you go today?" asked Miranda.

James had been everywhere. He'd visited Barry's Pond, but he didn't have the heart to swim or fish. He walked through the woods, but all the trees, the bright skies and puffy clouds, the dragonflies weaving in and out, served only to fuel and mock his melancholy. He tried his hardest not to visit Green Gables, because he knew he'd made a fool of himself last time he'd seen Davy- resorting to pettiness, threats and insults that had only annoyed Davy when he was already miserable. He couldn't bear the idea of a miserable Davy- but what was even worse was the knowledge that he could not save Davy from it.

James decided to just follow his feet, to see where they took him. He had no plan. He just wanted to wander and think, to attempt to either sort out or suppress the morass of his thoughts. He brought with him a small brass Buddha that he'd bought in Tibet years ago, just in case he ran into Davy along the path. He thought it was unlikely, but then again, if he was following his feet and his instincts, they would invariably lead to Davy. He knew. It was not Miranda, not his family, not the landscape of Avonlea that had brought him home every summer for the past four years. It was Davy. Ever since the boy had accompanied him, Miranda, and her little friend Dora that night, Night Vigils had ceased to be an offbeat Yates sibling tradition and had transformed into something else altogether. James had _liked _the boy for the two years he'd known him, but the energy between them during Night Vigils awakened him to a different feeling. Davy. So uninhibited, so willing to board James' gondola and ride with him through the canals of James' vivid imagination. He was different. He had a curiosity that could not be quelled to know and absorb and question everything, an insatiability for life that James had seldom seen in Avonlea children. The drive of an explorer, an adventurer. Someone who refused to knuckle down to rules he did not understand, who pushed and challenged and agitated against the confining Avonlea sky. Someone like himself. James had decided, within a few more Night Vigils, that he would be the one to save Davy Keith.

He'd treasured that brass Buddha, but he wanted Davy to have it now. He didn't care if Davy wouldn't come to India with him, wouldn't even see him or talk to him. He just wanted him to have it.

His feet led him to the opened Green Gables gate. He saw Marilla sitting on the porch knitting and talking to a young woman with red hair.

"Hello, James," said Marilla cordially. She knew nothing of what had passed between him and Davy when she and Mrs. Lynde had been out at the Lady's Sewing Circle. "I don't believe you've met Anne? This is Anne Shirley. Anne, this is James Yates."

"Morning, Miss Cuthbert," he returned. "Nice to meet you, Miss Shirley."

"Call me Anne," said Anne, who already knew that James Yates was no kindred spirit.

"Are the twins in?" he asked.

"Dora is at your house," said Anne. "Studying with Miranda."

"Oh," said James. He waited.

"I believe Davy is with Paul Irving," said Marilla.

"Oh?" said James again. His hand, in his pocket, closed into a fist around the Buddha.

"Paul is very determined to make Davy pass his exam. I think the term Paul used was 'Latin power-drill,'" said Anne.

"Oh," said James a third time. For one wild moment he considered giving the Buddha to Marilla. He _really _wanted Davy to have it, as soon as possible. But Marilla would be confused, Old Bitch Lynde would find something to be scandalized about and tell everybody, and Davy would not take it well. "Oh. Well I'd best be going. Nice seeing you, Marilla, Anne."

"Goodbye," said the two women, and James was off.

The next place James had gone was the Irving mansion.

He'd passed by the Irving mansion a thousand times in his youth, before he'd left for McGill. He was very familiar with the large stone house on the immaculate hill, the manicured gardens that seemed so devoid of life. He had once been inside the parlor and spoken to Mrs. Irving, who was one of those "kind" women who terrified the living daylights out of twelve-year-old James. He'd glimpsed a small brown-haired boy in the drawing room, reading on a couch and practically submerged in pillows.

His feet and his instincts led him into the woods of the property. He was thin and could easily fit himself behind one of the oak trees. He peeked behind it when he heard a soft high voice. A little girl had come out to the backyard, bearing a tea set. She went inside and came out several times, carrying porcelain dolls and rag dolls, and she staged a tea party full of hushed British accents and stilted laughter. It lasted an interminable fifteen minutes before at last the girl went inside and James could move. He walked through the woods on the periphery of the property, and he kept looking. Then he heard low voices, male voices, murmuring. James followed the sound to the stables. One of the voices was very clear, and the other was unmistakably Davy.

James contemplated actually entering the stable, but how would he explain his presence there? Davy would understand about him following his feet, but Paul White-Knight Irving would arch an eyebrow and then rush to inform the authorities. James decided he would flatten himself against the back wall of the stable and listen to what the boys were saying. He was almost there when he stopped in his tracks.

Paul and Davy were there outside the stable, leaning against the wall. From where James stood, he saw their faces in profile, less than a foot apart, staring deep into each other's eyes. Paul reached for Davy's hand, and James saw Davy lean forward even more and interlace his fingers with Paul's.

James' fists balled up so hard his nails punctured the skin of his left palm. He felt bile rise to his throat. He turned and ran. He thought he heard someone call "Who's there?" But he didn't stop or turn around.

He ran past Hester Gray's garden, through Lover's Lane, to Barry's Pond. He didn't stop running when he reached the small gray cliff at the edge. He ran right over it and propelled himself into the water.

The water was cold, but not nearly cold enough. James felt his ears, his throat and his cheeks burn and shake as he swam laps. His clothes flapped against his body like elephant's ears. A couple of half-grown Cottons pointed and giggled at him, but James was blind and deaf to the world. He swam and swam until he was out of breath. He dog-paddled to the pier and climbed out of the lake. He ran to the wild moor, a place too gloomy for even Anne Shirley to romanticize (and the location of many local legends, the most terrifying of which involved the ghost of a hanged pirate seeking vengeance on society with the noose still around his neck). He lay down in the heather and let the sun and vegetation absorb the water from his clothes and skin. He scrunched his face against the high-noon light and tried not to feel anything at all. It took him thirty minutes to realize he had a splitting headache- and that the water still running down the sides of his face came from neither lake nor sky.

Phantom Davys chased him as he trudged back home. He had to force himself to take every step, when what he really wanted to do was sink to the ground. Davy at ten, hanging off his arm and begging "I want to know." Davy at twelve at his first Night Vigil, reading from "The Raven" with excitement growing on his face. Davy at fifteen, explaining his latest project to James, a boat made out of seedpods and held together by principles of engineering across which Davy had unwittingly stumbled. Davy at any age, every age, staring at James with rabid fascination as he listened to a story, or exploding with laughter at a joke. Davy, now taller than James, coming to the woods for his tomato punishment, restless and excited despite (or maybe because of) his fear. Davy emerging from the lake, shirtless and dripping, glistening in the sun like a delicious glazed doughnut, a doughnut that rippled with muscle.

James tried to push these Davy-phantoms away. That Davy no longer existed. That Davy had been murdered by Paul Irving. He belonged to Irving now, Paul Irving, the incarnation of Avonlea "values." Irving had taken possession of his brain and transformed him into a puppet. It was Irving, pale and lily-livered, who was initiating Davy into the worlds of pleasure that James had so needed to show the boy. It was Irving, smug unworthy Irving, who basked in his hazel eyes now.

Every step James took hurt. Every lungful of air strained against James. James felt weak, beaten by the beaten paths of Avonlea that he had worked so hard to escape. There was no charm in the familiar landscape for James now. It was gray and worn. James had no reason to be here any longer. He needed to go. He did not know where. But he never knew anyway. James Yates followed his feet, and he would follow them now even if they led to certain death. Anything was better than this hell.

"Have some tea with us. You look like you need it," said Miranda, looking at the James' gloomy face with alarm.

"Dora, do you mind?" asked James. Dora's fixed, icy glare startled him out of his abyss for an instant.

What choice did Dora have? "Not at all," she said.

She hated him, she thought, listening to him talk to Miranda as though he had not just invited Davy to adventure with him in India. As though he felt no guilt for depriving his own sister of a chance to get out of Canada and see more of the world. As though he had done Dora no injustice, either. He seemed confused at Dora's silence. Did he expect her to be pleasant and friendly whenever he chose to dispense a few crumbs of attention upon her, to be content with being ignored and pushed off to the side? Well, she would not. Dora Keith had more pride than that. She was proud of her anger, the hate building within her. Hate was a strong word, a white-hot emotion that blinded all others. It was both a sword and a shield. It was empowering. It was the polar opposite of hurt.


	8. Ch 16

After the awkward tea, in which Miranda did most of the talking, James barely answered her, and Dora said nothing at all and made the Yates siblings decidedly uncomfortable, James went up to pack.

He couldn't go to India now. He could just see himself exploring jungles and climbing the Himalayas tortured with a glimmering phantom Davy by his side all the while. He'd go to an ashram and waste his quest for spiritual enlightenment fixating on Davy. He'd browse through village markets and fight urges to purchase a plethora of trinkets for Davy in a sick attempt to buy his love.

James did not believe in fighting with himself. He did as his heart bid, and it had served him well. He was sure he was happy for a greater percentage of his existence than the average person- and certainly more than the average Avonlea resident who made life decisions based on Mrs. Rachel Lynde. He was not experienced with the deluge of emotions he felt now, the action of suppressing his desire. He had to struggle to stop himself from running back to the Irving mansion, thrashing Paul, and dragging Davy into the woods to do his wicked will.

Years ago, when he realized that he was waiting impatiently for Davy Keith to grow up, he was appalled for only a moment. Then he remembered that everything happens for a reason. If his mind constantly swirled with images of the boy, if sometimes his soul burst with sunshine when he thought of something Davy had said or done, if some of his thoughts and dreams that featured Davy were extremely graphic, then it must mean that Davy would return these feelings someday.

James threw clothes into his suitcase blindly, trying not to wonder where he would go next. He would follow his feet, of course. The trouble was that his feet were not leading him anywhere now. His feet wanted to stay put, here in Avonlea.

Had Phantom-Davy hacked into his inner compass?

Or maybe, James thought, wrapping a flannel shirt around a cuckoo clock from Switzerland, this was happening for a reason too. Maybe Davy could not come to him without going through Irving first. Maybe he had to be primed for the intensity of love by someone inferior before he could handle James.

Maybe all Davy needed was a push.

James had seen love in all forms. Couples wedded at birth, letting their love blossom over the years. Societies where large groups loved freely. Adulterers stoned to death in the public square, eyes shining with the passion they had been unable to contain. Old marrieds who looked like lost children when apart for even a moment. Young people wooing in a thousand ways, with gifts of jewelry or livestock, with ceremonial dances, with feats of heroism, with mind games and coquetry.

Maybe James needed to change his approach. Ruffians like James and Davy climbed mountains to prove they could conquer nature. Davy would soon get bored with Irving, who had nothing to offer except girlish good looks and riches from his grandmother. James could be a mountain for Davy. He could be a challenge, seductively remote, inaccessible.

Or he could drive Davy mad by dancing JUST BARELY beyond his reach.

He could give Davy a taste of the pain he, James, was suffering right now.

James smiled to himself. His feet itched and tingled with a new purpose. He had a plan.

James began unpacking.

Anne Shirley strolled home down Lover's Lane, for once alone. She had had a delightful evening with Gilbert. They had done nothing more than clasp hands and sit together on their favorite bench in Hester Gray's garden, musing at the ephemeral beauty a sunset lends to the world. She'd pointed out a spiderweb, rendered spun-gold by the dying rays, and thought about how magical the cosmos must be when such a lowly creature could generate such beauty. Gilbert had reminded her of the sad myth of Athena and Arachne, and Anne's high spirits had sunk into a comfortable, tempered melancholy as she thought of how poor Arachne must feel, condemned to weaving only webs for eternity because of a goddess' jealousy. Anne had left her darling to visit with Diana Wright, the bosom friend of her childhood. As she watched the serene young mother play with little Freddie "Prince" Junior, as she listened to Diana's fond hopes that the child to be born in five months' time would be a girl so she could name her "Anne", she had felt a queer ache. As she looked at Diana's face, more beautiful than ever with its mature glow, she thought of all the joys that Diana had experienced already, while Anne had to wait for at least another year to even begin. Diana had noticed this look and reassured Anne that she had taken the right path for herself, that she admired her for her intelligence and modern ways, and that Anne deserved to exercise the full extent of her ambition before settling down to the sedate joy of marriage. Anne had clasped her friend's hand to her heart and thanked her warmly, but Diana was a full-blown woman, and she made Anne feel as though she were still no more than a girl.

When she arrived at Green Gables, she thought she had come to an empty house. Mrs. Lynde's carrying voice was nowhere to be heard, so she and Marilla must have gone to some Ladies' Aid event or other. The house was absent of clattering, so Davy must be out too, undoubtedly with Paul Irving. It gave Anne's heart joy that her two favorite boys had reconciled their differences at last. Mrs. Lynde seemed to approve of this friendship too, and when Davy had asked if he could stay the night at Paul's home so they could study longer, she had given him hearty permission before anyone else could react. Anne thought it odd that the boys still wanted to have sleepovers, but then again, she'd been that way with Diana too, right up until Diana had begun blushing a great deal over one Fred Wright. She supposed that boys could have bosom friends too, could have bonds like the one she'd had with Diana.

Anne hung up her hat and went upstairs to work on reviewing the new stack of lesson plans that had come in the mail. She was glad she could work from home this summer, because no teachers were leaving so there was no hiring or interviewing to be done. As she went up, she saw the light shining from Dora's room. She knocked.

"Who is it."

"It's Anne, dear. Can I come in?"

"Of course!" That was better. Anne pushed the door open. Dora was sitting on her bed, darning a black stocking in the candlelight.

"You're so quiet, I didn't even know you were here," said Anne.

Dora moved over on her bed to make room for Anne to sit.

"Thank you," said Anne. "I must say, it's not often I get to spend time with just you."

"You're usually out when I'm not busy or studying," Dora retorted. "How's Gilbert?"

"Oh, he's just fine. He's been studying a great deal as well, for the board exams," said Anne. "It seems as though everybody has exams except for me, these days."

"Everybody except you and James." Dora dropped her darning needle. Why did she say that? She wasn't supposed to think about James.

"That's true," said Anne absently. Dora glanced at her. Something did not seem quite right about Anne tonight. She wasn't starry-eyed.

"Is something troubling you, Anne?" she asked.

Anne chewed her lip for a good half minute before responding. "A bit," she said at last. "I just went to see Diana, and something about seeing her with her child and another one on the way is making me feel out of sorts."

"Why?"

"I don't know," said Anne. "She seems so happy, but full of a kind of happiness that I don't even understand."

"Well she's older, right? She's married with a two-year-old."

"That's just it," said Anne, swinging around to Dora. "She's not any older than me. We're the same age. We're both 24."

"Are you jealous?" asked Dora hesitantly. She liked that Anne was talking to her like a grown-up (something she _never _did with Davy, Dora was sure), and seemed to want her insight and advice. Anne had often played that role for Dora, and to have the positions reversed was disconcerting- especially because Dora was completely inexperienced with a problem like Anne's.

"I don't know," admitted Anne. "I shouldn't be. I chose my path, to go to Queens and teach, to go to Redmond and get my B.A., and to earn my livelihood. I love my job. Working as a principal at a girls' school enables me to touch so many lives. I like my students, perhaps not as well as I love my old pupils from Avonlea School, but still."

"Diana doesn't have any of that," said Dora. "She isn't earning her own livelihood. She didn't go to college. She just got married as soon as she was old enough." That would be within a year or two for Dora, she thought with a shudder.

"Exactly," said Anne. "And I know Diana and I are different. She is a dear, she is kind-hearted and nurturing. But she had to work _very _hard in school, and it wasn't doing much for her. She and I both always wanted to marry and have children, but it was never my main ambition. It was hers."

"So it seems as though both you and Diana are exactly where you should be," said Dora, picking up her darning again, but she did not move her needle.

"I suppose," said Anne uncertainly. "Yet it feels different. She and I both, when we were twelve, sketched our ideal man that we wanted to marry. I still remember him to a T. He was dark and melancholy, with glittering black eyes and a melting voice. He was tall and slender and the perfect gentleman. He was impeccably dressed in black suits and wrote poetry."

Anne and Dora both stared out the window for a moment and sighed.

"But Fred Wright is _nothing _like that," continued Anne. "He's fat, and red, and shorter even than Diana. He does farm work, and I doubt an imaginative thought ever entered his head. I remember when he was courting her. He hardly had a word to say. I had no idea what she saw in him, and I still don't. She is such a beautiful and graceful woman, and he is- well- I mean, he is a perfectly nice fellow I suppose, but he's the sort of man I'd imagine married to Nettie Blewett or something."

Dora tried not to snort at the concept of Nettie Andrews nee Blewett, the dried-up young woman with the shrewish nose and shrill voice, who haggled the skin off the noses of every shopkeeper whether she was buying carrots or couches.

"So I don't quite know how she can be so happy," said Anne. "Yet she seems transformed into a cloud. And because I have nothing to do with this happiness, because I can't even fathom it, I feel as though I don't belong in her life anymore."

Dora scrunched up her nose. "Was she _mean_ to you?"

"No, no! She was lovely!" said Anne. "She was confiding in me, all her modest hopes and dreams, with the rapture of one declaring she is about to become Queen of the Moon."

Dora tried to think of something to say. She felt out of her depth, but she also understood that she was perhaps the only one Anne could talk to about this. Gilbert wouldn't do. Anne was going to marry him, so she couldn't talk of marriage with him in anything other than a positive light. Marilla had never been married, and she was always glued to Fat Cow Lynde anyway, who would have a great deal of sanctimonious advice on the subject that would make Anne feel worse. Davy wouldn't have any idea what she was talking about. Anne wasn't close to Miranda, and Miranda was immature anyway. Paul Irving might be able to say something helpful, or at least pour healing sympathy from his wonderful poet-blue eyes, but Paul was very busy with Davy these days.

"Maybe Diana's dreams changed," said Dora. "Maybe she stopped caring about the ideal man you described. Ideal men are a somewhat rare species in Avonlea."

Both young women giggled at that.

"At least Fred isn't a Sloane," said Anne. "I could never forgive Diana for throwing herself away on a Sloane."

They laughed harder. Both of them had at some point been vexed by the attentions of a goggle-eyed self-important Sloane. For Anne it was Charlie at Redmond, and for Dora it was Jeb at school last year.

"But you know, Gilbert is nothing like the ideal man either," said Dora. "Do those ideal men even exist? Did you settle for Gilbert just because he's the next best thing?"

"Actually, they _do _exist, but they're not as wonderful in life as they seem in dreams," said Anne. She told Dora the story of Roy Gardener, her dark melancholy beau for two years at Redmond, who possessed every charming talent and trait, yet lacked Gilbert's humor or vitality.

Dora's eyes flashed at Anne's description of Roy. She didn't tell Anne this, but she thought that if she were to meet a Roy Gardener, she would never let him go. What kind of melancholy hero had a sense of humor anyway? Would she really want a man with a melting velvety voice to use it to tell _jokes_? How ridiculous.

"Did you always know you loved Gilbert?" Dora asked.

Anne laughed. This was not her ladylike giggle. This was a full-blown belly laugh.

And in a few short sentences, Anne told Dora the story of how before they were friends, they were fast enemies and bitter academic rivals, all because Anne took five years to get over being called "carrots."

Dora gaped. "You _broke a slate over his head?"_

"I had a temper," said Anne ruefully.

Dora continued to stare at Anne, trying vainly to imagine her Beautiful Teacher being violent.

"What I didn't realize, at the time, was that hate was an emotion perilously close to love," said Anne. "When you hate somebody, you are obsessed with him, and you pay a great deal of attention to him. Even if the attention is negative, you still think about the person you hate, all the time. I thought hate was the opposite of love, but it isn't. The opposite of love is indifference. I was indifferent to Billy Andrews, and-"

As Anne continued, Dora became frightened.

"Just a minute," she interrupted Anne's tale of beaux and woes. "Isn't hate sometimes just that? Hate? Not a degree to love or any other emotion?"

"I don't know," said Anne. "I never really hated anyone except Gilbert, and that was actually love in disguise. I once thought I hated Mrs. Lynde but I got over it. I guess I'm lucky to have hated so few people."

This was no help.

"Anyway," said Anne. "Enough about me. How are you doing?"

Dora almost chuckled at the question. Here they were, talking side by side for half an hour, living in the same house, and Anne was asking her a question as though the two had just met on the street. Then she realized that Anne meant the question, not as a courtesy, but an honest inquiry into Dora's life.

No one had asked any questions about Dora for a while.

"I'm well," said Dora. "I'm not too worried about Queens, except geometry, but Miranda is drilling me in it."

"That's good," said Anne. She was about to launch into a story about her youthful geometry troubles, but sensed that this wasn't the time. This was Dora's time. "Miranda's your best friend, isn't she?"

"I think so," said Dora. "We have a lot of fun together."

"Who are your other good friends?" asked Anne, slightly ashamed that she did not know.

"I'd say Davy and Miranda are my closest, even though Davy is my brother and is such an idiot," said Dora. "I also like Lucy Gillis, and Minnie May and Averil-Marguerite, and Annetta Bell is all right too. Come to think of it, I like all the girls except for Mirabel Cotton."

"What about boys?" asked Anne, teasing glimmers in her great gray eyes. "Do you have any special boy in your life right now?"

"Alas, no," sighed Dora. It took Anne a great deal of effort not to smirk at this. "The only tolerable boy in the world is Paul Irving, but Davy has him."

Anne furrowed her brow. "What do you mean, Davy _has_ him?"

"They spend every minute together," complained Dora. "Whenever I see Paul he just says hello and asks where Davy is. Miranda insists they- uh, never mind, I mean, I understand that they're best friends but Paul doesn't even notice me. When he came back, I thought we could be friends, because now I'm practically as grown-up as he is."

"Perhaps Paul is still too young to care for girls," said Anne, but even as the words came out they sounded wrong. Paul had always been mature beyond his years, and he had a poet's sensibilities, unlike Davy Keith who would forever be a boy running around in Indian feathers and inventing pranks with toads. Paul was also six feet tall and nineteen years old.

"I guess," said Dora, resolving not to tell Anne the suspicion she and Miranda shared about Paul and Davy. Anne might be scandalized- or worse, she might try to put a stop to whatever Paul and Davy had going on, and Dora couldn't do that to Davy, not when his exams were so close and he was doing so well.

"It's good, though, that you have your friendship with Miranda," said Anne. "I like Miranda. But I'm not sure about James. Dora, what do you think of James?"

Dora froze.

"Something strikes me about him, and not in a good way," continued Anne. "I don't think I quite trust him, but I don't know why."

"You're right," said Dora, heat building in her voice. "He's not trustworthy at all. He keeps bothering Davy. He tries to get him to play when Davy needs to study, and he wants Davy to abandon his education and go travel around the world. James invited Davy to go to India with him. Did you know that?"

"No," Anne lied, alarmed but curious about this angry Dora. She'd seldom seen Dora in the throes of any strong emotion.

"Well he did. Davy said no, because he needed to study and worry about his own future. But James won't take no for an answer. He's always coming here when you, Marilla and Mrs. Lynde are away. He calls Davy names, like he's trying to pick a fight. I just don't think it's right."

"James must be as old as I am. Why would he behave so badly? Especially when he's seen as much of the world as I hear, one would think he'd be wiser."

"One would think, yes, but the reality is that James Yates is an idiot," said Dora. "I hate him. He shouldn't be inviting Davy to India. Of course it would be so much fun to go to India, but why is he tempting Davy?"

Anne detected a hurt note beneath the anger, and she deduced the reason at once. She felt sympathy for Dora, but she was more concerned with the red flags in her mind.

Something was not right about James, she knew. Something was not right about the way a man her age, Gilbert's age, was keeping after a young boy and trying to thwart his studies, and who had apparently made this the object of his Avonlea summer vacation.

Something was especially not right about Dora's all-too-evident feeling for James, the aggressiveness her darning hand had acquired as soon as the conversation had turned to him. At Windy Poplars, Anne had heard terrifying stories of all kinds, most of which involved the inbred and mentally unstable Tomgallon clan. Being the principal of a girls' boarding school, and being responsible for the care of so many teenage girls, had made Anne wary in a way she had never been in Avonlea. She had doubled the guard on the school, as soon as a teacher had told her what had happened when Ed Tomgallon had broken into the school dormitory one night a few years ago. She'd assumed such things would never happen in dear old Avonlea, but that was ridiculous. Such things could happen anywhere.

If Dora already had strong feelings for James, who had struck Anne as an unsavory character, then Dora was in a very vulnerable position. She was a smart and strong willed girl, Anne knew, but she was small and thin and prone to the reckless flights of fancy of sixteen.

As Anne continued listening to Dora, she privately resolved to speak on this matter to Marilla, as soon as she could get her alone, away from Mrs. Lynde.

The next day, at the very beginning of Queen's class, Miranda scrawled two familiar letters on the corner of Dora's slate.

She hadn't gone in four years. She didn't think the others were having Night Vigils this year either, considering Miranda and Davy needed their sleep for Queen's exams. But she was going tonight. She would be a solid block of ice, and she would disturb James, and make him ask questions, and Davy would not be there, because he was staying the night at the Irving house.

Dora's lips spread into an evil smile as she thought of how she could torment James. Oh, he would pay. He would never forget her again. By the end of the night, he'd be terrified of her.

She brought her own Complete Works of Shakespeare with her. She had a page and a passage picked out.

King Lear. She would be Goneril and the Duke of Cornwall, Miranda would be Regan, and James would be the Earl of Gloucester. They would stage Act III, Scene vii. The cruelest scene in the play. She would give James nightmares. Before settling down to pretend sleep, Dora had practiced her line as the Duke in the glass, perfecting the expressionless, chilling mask. "Out, vile jelly."

Dora thought her white dress might make her look like a ghost, but instead she just looked childish. Then she thought of her black one, the one Marilla had her keep in the back of her closet just in case there was a funeral or another solemn occasion. Dora had never worn it. It had tight sleeves, a tight bodice, and a long skirt made so economically that the fabric clung to her slim hips and thighs. No puffs or ruffles, no frippery of any kind. Dora liked the way she looked in it. Mysterious and ethereal. It made her skin and hair fairer by contrast. She undid her hair so she could tie it up in black ribbons- but she decided to leave it down as it was, in messy curls. She did not look like herself at all. She looked like her own mad ghost, held prisoner by these tight clothes that reflected no light.

At eight fifty, Dora could contain herself no longer. She went out to the patio.

At eight fifty six, James arrived. Alone.

Dora's hands sweated against the Shakespeare volume.

"Where's Miranda?"

"Sick," said James. He did not ask where Davy was.

Dora waited. James did not say the Night Vigil was canceled.

"Come on," he said. He turned and started walking.

Dora blinked. They were doing it anyway? Just the two of them?

This was more than she'd bargained for.

But what could she do? She was outside. She'd spent the better part of the evening mentally preparing for a Night Vigil. James had come out knowing Miranda wouldn't be there. But maybe he was hoping Davy would come- but then, why wouldn't he pretend the Night Vigil was off, when he saw no Davy?

James looked over his shoulder at Dora, who was standing still.

"You coming or not?"

Dora gulped. She made her decision.

She followed.

_I did not think this through_, thought Dora. They had been walking in the woods in total silence for two minutes. James had his knapsack, but Dora's hands were occupied with her book and candle. Her dress might look scary but it was not built for the woods. Her legs had very little freedom to move.

They were at the log Dora remembered so well. James had lifted her over it during those Night Vigils four years ago. She could still recall the feel of his hands on her waist. It still made her hot all over.

James cleared the log. Dora wondered how to free her hands to hike her skirt up to climb over. Though she wore black stockings, she thought uneasily that it would be enormously improper.

James was watching her face. "Give me the book and candle."

Dora handed them over and began hitching up her skirt, but there was no need. James had placed the book on a flat rock, and the candle on top of it. Now he reached over the log and grabbed Dora around the waist again.

Dora gasped. James smothered a chuckle and hoisted her into his arms like a bride.

Dora squeezed her eyes shut as tingles coursed through her body. His fingers moved a bit on her shoulder and in the hollow under her knee. She bit down hard to stop herself from betraying the secret feeling his touch churned inside her.

Oh, she hated James. Oh, how she hated him for doing this to her, for making her feel this way.

When James tried to put her down, her hands still clutched each other behind his neck.

"Want me to carry you the whole way?" he asked. His voice was low and amused. Dora's eyes few open in horror, and she found his dark hooded eyes trained on her face. She let go and leapt away. She couldn't look at him.

Her intimidation plan was doomed to fail.

They continued walking to the remembered clearing in silence. Dora stared at her own feet, cursing again and again her vanity for choosing such impractical clothes for a Night Vigil, and resolving to make up for her lapse.

James stole glances at the young girl along the way. Her lips were pursed, her knuckles white as they wound around her candle, her eyes fixed and her chin determined. He found the determination amusing. Her yellow curls were messy today, looking rather like Davy's as they flew in the crescendoing wind. Her absurd outfit made her unable to take long strides, so she took short, fast steps to keep up with James, giving her gait an uncustomary swing.

James had never gotten to know Dora well. She was first Miranda's best friend, and then Davy's twin sister. The fourth wheel to their carriage. She was fun when they played and adventured together, but she didn't seem have much to say for herself around James. Whenever he encountered her and Miranda working or doing chores, she seemed efficient and prim. Many people seemed to wish Davy could be more like Dora. James knew there was more to Dora than her model-child exterior, because she betrayed imagination and a certain dark edge when she asked him questions about his stories or played at make-believe, but Dora had never really captured his attention.

Even now, Dora was nothing to him for herself, just the closest living creature to Davy. She was a pawn, perfectly positioned to get to Davy, to further James' plan.

That did not mean James was not going to enjoy this phase of the plan.

When he noted the rawness cracking through Dora's tight exterior, he thought he might enjoy this very much indeed.


	9. Ch 17

Chapter 17

Dora and James reached the clearing. The logs from the last bonfire were in their remembered position. Dora wondered when the special fire had last been lit. Last year, maybe? The trio had long since stopped telling her about Night Vigils, just in case her "guilty conscience" might spur her to get them caught in the act.

James gathered some dry leaves and added them to the pile. Dora found her eyes attracted to the blue-grey shadows playing on his hands and forearms as he worked in the vanishing dusk.

"You can put the book down now," he said to Dora, raising an eyebrow. "And I need that candle."

Dora hadn't realized how still she'd been standing.

She bent to put the book on a group of rocks, and she walked toward the center of the clearing, to the pile. James swiped the candle from her hand and lit the fire. As he fanned the flames, coaxing them to rise, his dark eyes caught hers and held them. She stared back. The warm wind tumbled in her hair, seeking furrows between the curls.

As her eyes devoured his jawline, the knifelike cut of his cheekbones, the modeling of his nose and the wings of his eyebrows, she felt improper. As she memorized the contours of his lips, the delicate convexities and concavities only visible in this dramatic firelight, she felt positively brazen. She should not be doing this, she thought. It was ridiculous to revel in the appearance of someone she hated. Her gaze strayed lower. He was unshaven. He hadn't taken very good care of himself today. He hadn't even finished buttoning his shirt up. His collarbones were surprisingly thick on such a thin frame, and his shirt revealed a patch of bare skin above a sliver of white undershirt, a few dark bristles poking out of its nadir.

This chest hair made Dora lower her eyes and blush. It reminded her that James was 24 years old, not a teenager like Dora. Not her equal.

It also excited her, fueled her curiosity about other things she wasn't meant to see.

"So," said James, his voice a black velvet murmur, his open collar flapping against him in the wind. "What do you want to do?"

She hated him, she reminded herself. Hate.

He ran a hand through his hair, very slowly, keeping his eyes on Dora all the while. Dora found herself imagining how that thick wavy hair must feel to his hand, how his hand must feel to his scalp, how his fingers would feel burrowing in her own hair. She looked down.

"You've hardly said a word to me for two days."

He'd noticed?

"Are you mad at me?" he asked. "Have I done something to provoke you?"

She shook her head.

"Then why?" He began walking toward her, skirting around the fire.

She dug her toes into the bottoms of her shoes as he came closer.

"It's been a long time since I've seen you out here. Why did you stop coming?"

Dora shrugged and injected flippancy into her voice. "Why do you care? You were having so much fun without me."

James saw the hurt flicker in her eyes before she could school them back to impassivity. He had his answer. He hadn't known. He felt a glimmer of sympathy as he thought of how the little girl must have suffered because of him, feeling the emotions he'd felt for Davy. Then he mentally shook his head. He had an agenda here, a game to play. No mercy.

"I think you can be fun, too," he said. His shirt was not only half-unbuttoned, but also half-untucked. His face half-twisted in a half-smirk. "What do you think?"

He was three feet away from Dora and showed no intention of stopping.

"What happened? Cat's got your tongue again?"

"Um," said Dora, very fast. "Um. I have a scene picked out, in my Shakespeare, that we can, uh, act-"

James' face was so close she could count individual bristles in his stubble. "Then go get it," he whispered.

Dora turned on her heel and practically ran to the rock. She snatched up the book and hurried back to James.

"Go on," he said. "Open it." He stretched lazily.

Dora kept her eyes firmly trained on the book. It would be very dangerous to look at him now, stretching, when his clothes already barely held together. She didn't know why her hands were shaking so hard, why she was having trouble just turning pages.

James noted all of this with interest. One nice thing about fair girls was how easy it was to read their emotions. Even the faintest flush showed on white cheeks. Even the minutest pupillary dilation could be detected in light eyes. Dora's skin shone ivory against the black of her dress, and it was a very warm night, but gooseflesh rose on her bare forearms. Fascinating, how little effort he had to put into generating this effect on Dora Keith.

"I don't think this scene will work anymore because Miranda isn't here," blurted Dora.

James peeked over her shoulder, letting his stubbled cheek graze against Dora's smooth one for just a split second.

As soon as he saw the page, he jerked back.

Why would Dora pick _that scene _from Lear? He stepped away from the girl.

"We could try to act it, but we'd each have to play two people," she continued.

James tried to push the horrible torture-and-eye-gouging scene out of his mind, but he knew it would tug at the chains of his brain until he understood her choice. No matter. He needed to improvise. Something else from Shakespeare.

A smirk grew on his face. Yes.

"How about we act out something else?" he said. "With only two characters."

"All right," said Dora.

James took the book from her and pretended to flip through it for a while before he opened to the page he wanted.

"Do you like _A Midsummer Night's Dream?"_

Dora smiled. It was rather shallow, but rich with fireflies and fairy dust and sweet madness that hurt no one in the end. It was Anne's favorite, and Anne had read it to Dora when she was seven and ill with fever. For weeks she'd dreamt of leaf-clad sprites playing flutes and harps and dancing in the enchanted woodland dusk.

"Here," he said, handing her the book opened to Act II, Scene 1. "I'll be Demetrius, you be Helena."

Dora didn't remember this part too well. It was before most of the fairy action.

"'I love thee not, therefore pursue me not,'" James began, pitching his voice to the irritation Demetrius must feel at that point, followed by a lovesick girl when the one he wanted was too busy having summer sleepovers with another man. Really, he thought, it was too fitting.

"'You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant- but yet you draw not iron, for my heart is true as steel: leave you your power to draw, and I shall have no power to follow you." Dora stumbled over the iambs. This line confused her.

"'Do I entice you?'" James' voice sharpened, as though Demetrius was very annoyed indeed by Helena's cryptic puns. Dora shivered. "'Do I speak you fair? Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth tell you I do not nor I cannot love you?'"

"'And even for that do I love you the more,'" returned Dora. "'I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you. Use me as but your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me: only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you.'"

She stopped and glared at James.

"You're not finished with your line," said James, raising an eyebrow.

"Why did you pick this scene?"

"Chance." James sat down on a large grey rock and looked up at her through the shock of messy bangs veiling one eye. "Does it bother you?"

Dora could have smacked him with the book. Instead her features just thinned out more, and her cheeks burned red and white.

"Real actors put aside their personal feelings and just _act_ as the script demands," said James. "I should've known you didn't have it in you."

Oh, no he didn't. Oh, no he did not. He did NOT just say that.

"You were right," said James, stretching again, eyes on the inky sky. "It _is_ more fun without you."

Dora flipped the book back open and rushed back into her line. "'What worser place can I beg in your love, and yet a place of high respect with me, than to be used as you use your dog?'" she finished, forcing her expression and voice to drip grotesquely maudlin. She snapped back to stone and shoved the book at James.

James tried not to laugh at her rage. "'Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit, for I am sick when I do look on thee.'"

"'And I am sick when I look not on you.'"

"'You do impeach your modesty too much, to leave the city, and commit yourself into the hands of one who loves you not; to trust the opportunity of night and the ill counsel of a desert place with the rich worth of your virginity.'"

At this Dora's anger vanished, replaced by confusion and embarrassment. When had she sat down next to James? And why were they so close? She could see irregularities in the parchment texture of his skin. His eyes seemed to envelop her. She quickly looked down at the book spread across both of their knees. His hand and hers were mirrored on the pages. His was large-boned and callused, hers was small and pale and defenseless-looking. Dora's gaze traveled farther down, then back up again, following the trajectory of their thighs. If they were half an inch closer, she calculated, their knees would touch.

She stood up. The book clattered to the forest floor. She didn't notice. She couldn't be here- she couldn't, she couldn't. She couldn't be out in the woods at night, alone with a fire and James. She should never have come. She needed to go home. Back to Green Gables, back to her little white bed, the lull of crickets and safety and boredom.

She spun away and started walking. She tripped. She cursed herself for forgetting the limitations of her dress as her face sank to the dirt.

Hands gripped her forearms just as her nose was about to touch mud.

James pulled her up. She leaned back against him. Her frizzy hair tickled the naked trapezoid of his chest. Her eyelids sank as she was overwhelmed by his scent, musky and exotic as though infused with a rare spice, and both of them knew that she was not going anywhere.


	10. Ch 18

"Wake up, Dora!" Anne shook her, surprised that the good twin could still be asleep thirty minutes before school-time. "Are you ill?"

Dora wiped the gunk out of her eyes with the back of her hand. "'M fine," she grunted.

"Good," said Anne uncertainly. "You may have to eat on the way to school. I'll give you some bread and butter. Mrs. Lynde will be scandalized and say it's frightful for the digestion, but you shouldn't go to school hungry."

"Thanks," said Dora, who still hadn't gotten up. She wasn't sure if there was still mud in her hair. "Where's Davy?"

"Davy is coming straight to school from Paul's house," said Anne, sweeping out the door.

Dora smirked to herself. Davy had spent the night with Paul. And she had spent the night with James.

In the woods. In the wind. In the middle of the night. By the roaring fire James had touched her everywhere. He had pushed her down into the dirt, against a log. He had lifted her dress to the waist and removed her petticoats and drawers and done things to her with his fingers and lips and tongue, wild and wicked things for which Dora knew no name. Filthy things. James had been positively filthy with Dora in the woods, and Dora was even filthier because she'd let him, because she'd liked these things being thrust upon her in the dirt and soil and mud, because she'd rolled and shaken in a most unladylike manner and begged him not to stop, because she craved those sensations even now.

Dora went to the bathtub, which Anne had filled for her and scented with lilac soap. She dipped one toe. It was cool. She stepped in, slowly, glorying in the juxtaposition of wet and dry, hot and cold, and that ascending threshold where the water encircled her leg and rippled against it, surface tension tickling the small hairs, pulling her in.

As she lifted and lowered the other leg into the tub, she thought of the way James had moved his hand up her foot, ankle, shin and calf, the hollow behind her knee, the way he'd separated his fingers and swirled them this way, that way, as he moved up her thigh, gripped the muscle and buried his knuckles in the soft whiteness, as he slowly, slowly teased his way up.

Baths had never been like this before. Her skin had never felt so sensitive to the water's minute vibrations. She burned in the coolness. Her hands longed to touch her own body, to mimic what James had done.

But she was Dora Keith, and she knew that she did not have time.

She finished her bath, quick, businesslike. She grabbed her towel from the drying rack, hot from the glass-filtered sun. It was an old towel, whose worn patches felt like his stubble against her skin. She remembered James's smirk in the dark, glimpses of it caught between the blinding waves of the feeling she could not name. Thinking of it made hot blood shoot to her wrists, through the high-tension-wires of her veins. Her hands trembled.

This wouldn't do at all. She thrust the towel aside. She chose the white dress that she had almost worn to the Night Vigil. She put on her knickers and pulled up her black stockings, fastening the sensible garters. She slipped into two petticoats as per habit, not paying attention to the colors, and tried not to think about anything at all as she laced herself into the bodice of her dress. As she looked in the glass and plaited her hair, finishing off each braid with a black ribbon, she realized that one petticoat was black and its lace trim fell below the hem of her dress.

It was too late to fix this. She needed to run to school. As she went, she thought she saw a few people look at her curiously, smile indulgently. Old Mr. Harrison certainly did. This made her pause, wondering if her dress was too improper, if she should just take off her black petticoat and stuff it into her school bag. But where would she find privacy to take off a petticoat? She couldn't just do it in the middle of the road. Eventually, she consoled herself with the reasoning that there was nothing improper about a petticoat after all. It was just cloth. Wearing a petticoat that showed was more modest than going about in insufficient petticoats. Besides, some 16th century gowns were made specifically so that parts of the petticoat showed amid the curtains of heavier skirt fabric.

If anyone asked, she was starting a new fashion.

She giggled at the idea of Jeanna Pye coming to school the next day in even more mismatched dress and petticoat, determined to outdo Dora. Perhaps Jeanna's petticoat would be scarlet. Perhaps Mr. Browndale would smack her in front of the room with a pointer, like a six-


	11. Author's Note

A/N:

Hey everyone! Thank you to my reviewer- and thank you also to those of you who have favorite the story. Especially thank you to Acidity, for writing Part I and being so supportive of my continuation.

I haven't updated in a while because every month or so, I try to write another chapter, but I'm never happy with what I come up with. I just don't know what direction to take this story next.

Could those of you who are following this story please review and let me know what you envision happening next- or what you would like to see happen- or what you never thought in your wildest fantasies would ever happen but secretly wish would? I really want to continue this story but I think I might need some extra inspiration.

Thanks!


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